» Sat May 28, 2011 8:06 am In late August the wild Blue Mojave blossoms on the cactus in the quiet ranges of Arizona. Its fragrance lasts for only a moment when the petals unfold, but those who have smelled it describe an emotion unidentifiable. For the few who live in these untamed lands, there is the pleasure of a Blue Mojave, for the blossom will never stay the same.
The yellow curtains float lazily on the night breeze, wind rattling the doorknobs on the little prairie. The sun recedes into its own home, casting shimmers of orange and gold through the open window. Upon the low-set cot a man lies inert, an arm lazily hanging over the metal frame.
He feels the cold Canadian air upon his back, the weight of his weapon, and the choice in his heart. In his dream he stands before his equals, as the combat bonds the group regardless of rank. Yet it is he who is in charge, the wind whistling high above the cliffs. He can taste the bitterness of a poor decision, a sacrifice to follow orders. And as those fateful words leave his tongue he takes pride only in the next time that they meet. But it is not to be for the factors brought together here bear bad omens.
As the man rolls in his sleep, the scene changes. Halfway high upon the bleak terrain. The wind isn’t letting up; he shouts to his friends, lend me your rifles! There is room enough in my pack. Let me endure your burden, I will take the responsibility. The men do not question their orders, and they lend him their rifles. They rise over the bluff and the ambush begins.
The man leaps out of bed, grabbing the cool firearm from his pillow. He sees them in front of him, trusting faces and tolerant eyes. He knows the faith they have in him, he feels their pain. And the man runs from his room, dashing across the frigid wood to the forest. If only they had weapons! Find some cover for yourselves; they’re coming from the right! He shivers and the gun gains weight in his sweating palm. He watches his men being picked off, helpless like animals. He does all he can to save them. His cousin in the same unit lies mortally felled upon the snow. He points a ragged glove around the leader. Sergeant! They’re on the right, the right! God, help me! The commander rushes forward, gun loaded and ready to die for his fellow man, better to let he himself die for his wrong order, give the others just one chance!
And the door of the shack bursts open, and the man stands alone in the cold. He faces the sky in a t-shirt and pants, the crescent moon rising in the sunset sky. He looks upon the white-yellow desert, and the green plants. He smells the Blue Mojave, and the tears rise in his chest. He knows he can never go back for his men. The bittersweet smell embraces him, and he sits upon his little porch. And he waits for the dawn to take him.
