A. Blinken

A cousin was killed recently, a National Guard cousin, killed in the Middle East. I drove up canyon through the rain to bring Granny her groceries and tell her the news: "It was cousin Emmett, Granny," I said, setting two big brown paper bags on her table, "which would be your great grand nephew, remember him? At a family picnic in ’94 he was the one that wore the baggy trunks and trapped a water snake on a dive in the river. Remember, he was afraid to take his trunks off in front of girl cousins so he danced around until the snake fell out and Rosella who was twelve at the time shouted, "poor Emmett, he lost his trouser snake!" Well, him. He was killed by a bomb. They’re burying him in Santa Rosa with his dad." Granny didn’t say anything, she just took her stuff from the bags and put it away. The wind buffeted the cabin; every so often a gust boomed down the canyon and the little building shuddered. After a minute I said, "I guess you don’t remember him." "Sure, I remember him, a clumsy little guy with big ears. It’s just that by now I’m used to deaths of that kind. I’ve seen ninety years of war, a stream of mothers’ tears enough to wash a gulley. It’s too bad about Emmett, it’s always too bad." I thought about ninety years of war. "There haven’t really been wars every day of your life, Granny." She said, "no? Where do the dead boys come from, then? Call it a war or not, and calling this now a "war" is like teenagers calling hot pants true love. The name tries to justify the doin’. It doesn’t matter what you call it, killin’ common folk is an important job of governments of every propaganda." She finished up and poured two cups of boiled coffee. I said, "I guess I wonder why we do it." "’Wars make kings so kings make wars,’" she said. "Fathers send their sons and so call themselves patriots down at the lodge. Sons go because they’re told to and they think the uniform will help them get laid. Communities send their young men so the government won’t send troops there." After a minute, I corrected her: "women are fighting now, too." Granny shrugged, "the tears are the same." I burned my lip on the coffee, "so, no war is justified?" "I don’t know anything about what justifies what, boy. I just know that for common people there’s common ways to die, and war is one. It’s like plague or any misfortune; we have nothin’ to do with it’s comin’, and all we can do is die." I blew on the coffee, "some folks figure the war is important." "Then they should go fight it, and as most of them are old, it wouldn’t be such a loss as killin’ our young." A gust hit the cabin and outside something broke loose and banged away with the wind. Rain dashed against the window. "War and mothers’ tears", Granny said to her coffee, "common as rain."