The Warmth We Cannot Feel

Sargent Sonso was better off alone during the holidays.

He hated the noises of the season, and the lights, and the cheer.

A few years ago, just after the war, he’d tried going to a friend’s house for “Friendsgiving”. He thought it would be quiet meal of turkey and potato, instead it was an evening of kids screaming and scraping plates and drunk friends laughing loudly at jokes about the war and the people he’d fought.

He felt he should be happy about it. That peace was why he’d gone to fight in the first place, so his friends could laugh like that without a care. But he was lost in the carelessness of it.

He’d gotten lost in the war the same way. On the front, it was a chaos of bombs and gunfire; careless death, but the rules were clear: kill the faces trying to kill him and kill some faces he couldn’t fix up. But in the chaos of a holiday meal, there’s no clarity how to act towards the living who laugh at the dead that haunt you. They stopped invited him after that.

Christmas last year was about the same. He had gone to his sisters. Their whole cohort had been drafted to stomp out the rebellion, but her service was spent in logistics, away from the battles. After the war she found hope enough to get married, have kids, and pretend that life was returning to normal. It should have been a nice dinner, but he found himself pulled back to the war.

They had been having a Christmas dinner on the Hill; just MRE’s and crummy camp booze when they were attacked. His sister’s house became that tent, and clattering plates and the kettle whistle were replaced by gun rattle and incoming bombs.

The kids were a bit upset by their uncle suddenly giving their doll a sling from torn t-shirts and crawling under the table to cradle a stranded Roomba. All for naught, the poor thing perished of its wounds while he apologized profusely as its glazed eye stared, impassive.

But the dead cannot hear apologies.

After all that, Sonso decided that this year he’d eat alone. He’d get some chicken and fresh vegetables, then have dinner at home alone with his ghosts.

But things aren’t always simple.

As he carried his dinner home, there was a sudden commotion. A store clerk was waving a broom at a girl, “Get out of here, I won’t sell to the scum who tried to ruin this country.”

The girl darted out of the shop and ran into Sonso. She fell over.

He reached down, “Are you ok?”

“Sorry,” She mumbled, ignoring his hand as she got up, then with one motion she nabbed his bag of groceries and ran off. Sonso stared at girl’s bare feet as she ran off.

“Oh, sir!” Came the store clerk’s voice, “Are you ok? Did she rob you? What can you expect of her kind, though?”

Sarge stared at the clerk, “It’s alright. I have a good pension,” he said, “I’ll just get more.” He turned to go back to the store but noticed a glint in the snow. He reached down and picked up a key with a little leather tag.

“Ah,” he muttered, “The Safe Haven,” then turned to follow the tracks. “I bet she’ll need this,”

The Safe Haven was a government project to rehouse survivors of the war, mostly women and children of the losing side with nowhere else to go. It wasn’t known to be a great location; the people were poor, and government wasn’t as helpful as it pretended.

As he came into the neighborhood, he could feel the people watching him from flimsy porches and blanketed windows. It couldn’t have been often that people like him came through.

When he came to the house indicated by the key, he glanced in the window. He could see the girl and another child jumping in the room. He couldn’t help but smile. Must be excited for good food. He came to the door and paused.

“Maybe I’ll just leave it,” he muttered.

“Um,” Came a voice behind him, “May I help you?”

He instinctively reached for a gun he didn’t have and turned to find a woman staring at him.

He held a hand to his chest and let out a half laugh, “You startled me,”

“Sorry.” She said, “What do you want?” She held a basket on one arm like she was also ready to draw a weapon.

“Ah, well,” He said, “I found your key,” He held out the key, and the woman shook her head.

“Oh, that child. Please, come in,”

She brushed past him and pushed open the door.

As they entered, she placed her basket on a small table, and the boy ran into the room.

“Mama mama!” he shouted, “Guess what sis brought! Chicken and vegetables!”

“Oh, my!” Said the woman, glancing at Sonso, “What a treat!”

The girl darted around the corner and her smile dropped the moment she saw Sonso.

The woman held out the key, “This gentleman says he found your key in the street, Bea. Any idea how you dropped it?”

Bea walked forward with her eyes to the floor, while the young boy stared, curious.

The woman crossed her arms, “Did you steal this man’s groceries?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s wrong. We don’t steal.”

“But mothe-“

“I said we don’t steal,” the mother stooped down and placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders,

“Stealing harms more than a man or store. Now go get his groceries.”

“Yes, ma’am.” And she sulked away.

“I’m sorry about this, Mr…”

“Just call me Sonso, but don’t worry, Mrs…”

“Miss Mara. The war widowed me.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“You’d be the only soldier to say it,” She looked at him, “You were in the War of the Hill, weren’t you?”

He swallowed hard, “Yes, ma’am. I was a medic,” he looked at his hands, “at least in title.”

“I remember your nose,” She said, “Near the end, I was wounded in the field and I saw you going through with a rifle and wrappings.”

“I had to fix who I could…”

“I remember seeing you working. I thought you were the angel of death because you’d fix some and shoot others. When you came to me, you fixed me up. But I remember thinking “why would the angel of death have such a weird nose?”

Sonso laughed despite himself, and the girl came trudging back in with the grocery bag.

“Here, sir.” She said, holding out the bag. Sonso took the handle,

“What else, Bea?” Said Mara,

“I’m sorry I stole.”

“Thank you,” Said Sonso, and he hesitated.

“Thank you, Bea,” Said Mara, “Now go peel the potatoes. And take your brother.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s hard here?”

“Things are hard, Sonso,” Said Mara, “but sometimes surviving is a greater act of rebellion than fighting.”

“Do I deserve to survive?” Said Sonso, speaking before thinking, “I feel like the dead shame me for living, when I should have joined them.”

“It’s not a crime to survive,” Said Mara, “Perhaps they’re not shaming you for living but telling you to live.”

“The dead can’t speak,”

“And yet they haunt you.”

Sonso suddenly felt overwhelmed, and covered his eyes, “What did I fight for if kids have to steal to eat?”

She stared at him a minute, “I lost my husband, my family, and now my culture is dying too. And yet my God whispers to me, “Life is a gift,” so I choose to struggle forward, if not for myself then for the next generation. The dead may not have a voice, Sonso, but they do speak to us. So let them remind you to look forward and use your life to build future where kids don’t have to steal.”

Sonso held out the bag of groceries, “Can I start with you?”

“Why start small? Don’t soldiers get fat pensions? There are other kids here with bigger needs.”

“Ha! Do you really want help from me? I probably killed half their parents.”

She smiled, “For my people this season is about renewal and redemption. You may have killed us then, but now you can help us heal. Our God is strange like that.”

“I don’t believe in gods,”

“And yet you’re here,” She smiled at him, and took the bag, “Let’s start with a dinner. Will you help me feed the people here?”

That evening as they ate, Sonso listened to the plates clatter, and the kids shouting, and adults drinking, and realized his ghosts were quiet. He felt a warmth, and a new hope that even a haunted soldier could live for better future.