It was Thanksgiving again. His Mom would be pulling the turkey from the oven – his wife and son would be smiling across from his brother. His brother would be smiling back. The smells would be mingling everywhere – and Becky would be bouncing around like a mutant – teleporting dishes in with a cheery phrase every time.
Terry rubbed his arms – it was the only time he was greatful for the layers and layers of army gear. It was cold. Two Arabic men were cooking a goat – using a flamethrower like device – but much smaller. You could hear the blood sizzling from the fresh kill.
Terry blew into his hands and rubbed them together. Next year -hopefully – he’d be home for the holidays. . . he thought as he watched the sun sink behind the sand dunes.
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