Tin Soldier

It's 2002. She makes a joke at my expense. I feel happy. I feel wanted. I feel needed. For once, I do not feel like an outlier, like a footnote on my family's history. My friends look at me expecting a reaction, but I can only manage to glance in her direction trying to steal a flash from those determined eyes I have come to admire so much. I get nothing. I think she is as nervous as I am, but she does not show it.

It's 2023. I am sitting alone in a small flat trying to recall the elusive feeling of 21 long years prior and, to my surprise and grand delight, it is still here.

It's 2002. The war that ravages the country feels closer to the cities now, and I am a member of the reserve army. There is a remote chance that I will be called upon to join the military. Fear runs through the community, and one day I find a letter in my grey backpack. It's from her. She has always been a better writer than I can ever hope to be, but this time I can feel her tremulous hand scribbling on the page ripped from a school notebook. She writes she fears for me. The war will go on, but she fears for me. I feel happy. I feel wanted. I feel needed.

It's 2003. I am living in a different city, about to embark in one of the worst mistakes of my life. A mistake that will take me to a country I despise and a city that both fascinates and disgusts me. But most importantly, it will take me away from her for years. And yet, the pressure machine enforces it and makes it seem desirable, even necessary. A part of me hopes I can return to her after this ordeal, but in my heart I know this will not be. And yet, I press on. I vow to write and keep the flame alive.

As I pack to leave on this misadventure, I promise to myself to never forget certain things to make sure I am still whom I want to be upon my return. The pressure machine keeps me from nearly all kinds of music and entertainment, but I refuse to forget the songs I love, the books that have made me, and the girl who has captured my heart and inspired my fumbling verses. I promise to write to her at every chance I have. 

It's 2009. I am about to make the second mistake that will destroy my life and my confidence, despite many indications that I shouldn't make it. Fuelled by falsehoods, by lies and by deceptions both wilful and innocent, I jump into the abyss. For a time it feels good. For a time I believe I made the right choice. One day this decision will cost me my sanity, my happiness, all my trust in myself, and very nearly my life.

It's 2008. I run into her again at church. She is back only temporarily. She is living abroad and is, by all reports, doing well. I tell myself I am fine: I am about to be engaged and the pressure machine is pleased with me. She is distant, but I tell myself that it is good. She is no longer really in my life and has become someone I no longer know. "But this is good", I tell myself. 

It's 2014. Desperation has got the best of me. I have been thinking about it for months, even planning it, but this August day seems perfect for it. I set in motion my plan to end my life but it is far too convoluted and timid to actually be effective. Hours later I find myself full of caffeine, sugar, and opioids, lying in the back of a large ambulance being comforted and kept in check by a friendly paramedic who assures me that he will care for me, calling me "tigre", trying to cheer me up, but in my mind I have had enough.

It's 2003. For months, I have been living 5607 kilometres away from the city I call home and where she still lives. I have kept my promises: every night I play my favourite songs in my head in an effort to not forget them, though it is likely that what I remember sounds more like a hymn than a rock song, but I do my best. I have been writing and sending a handwritten letter to her family home every week I have been there. .80 USD suffice to carry my clumsy words to her hands, and I know she is getting my letters. I have memorised her street address and make no mistakes. She doesn't reply, but I have made a promise to myself. I keep on writing.

It's 2022. I have abandoned the pressure machine and my life lies in pieces in front of me. A memory suddenly accosts me from my time in L.A.: I used to have people pray for her when I believed in prayer, when I believed in god. Back then, I believed in the pressure machine and in everything it gave me. Now I blame that pressure machine for everything I lost and for everything I did not have. I think of her and of what could have been. I mourn the man I could have been as I despise the image that stares back at me every day, and I blame the damn pressure machine for all of it.

It's 2002. I walk nervously to her family home carrying in my pocket two love poems I have written. I have asked her to read them and give me her opinion. She reads them and gives me her notes -what I could have done better and what she liked- before asking me for whom I have written them. I take a mirror from her dresser and hold it in front of her. 

It's 2023. A sunny, sleepy day in a quiet town 4549 kilometres away from my city brings her back into my mind. I find online an essay she authored but mere weeks before and, as I read it, I can hear her voice and see her eyes telling me that story, and I recognise her. There she is: that mighty woman I always knew she was and would become is real. The memories pour over me all at once along a cascade of words unspoken, tears unwept and smiles unoffered. I have not seen or spoken to her in years.

It's 2001. A sunny Saturday afternoon finds me returning home after a morning of military training. The phone rings, and it's her. She tells me she's watching her little sister and her friend, and asks me to join her for lunch and a film. I cannot wait to see her, and make my way to her home in my fatigues. We walk together to the shopping mall located a few blocks away and it soon becomes clear to the little girls that we are on our own adventure. We watch over the girls, but cannot avoid catching each other's gaze. I think she likes my uniform. I know I like her eyes. We find the theatre and sit together. The film is Rat Race. We timidly brush against the other, exchanging glances, responding laughter outbursts, and finding excuses to touch our feet, our arms, our hands. As the film approaches the end, we sing the title song together. This sweet, unforgettable Saturday afternoon is the closest she and I ever approach having a date.

It's 2014. I am lying on a hospital bed nearly at ground level in a room for reanimation patients. There are cancer patients, people with respiratory diseases, and me. I vomit. I weep. Mother comes to see me and tells me I need to return to church and serve. I want to kick mother out of the room, but I can barely manage to breathe. Mother does not understand what is happening to me. The pressure machine has finally broken me.

It's 2003. She finally replies to my missives and asks me to stop writing. With a heavy heart, I comply.

It's 2022. I have decided I am not cut out for relationships and vow never to try again. I think of her. I wonder if she is happy. I hope she is. I think again of what could have been. 

It's 2002. She calls me Tin Soldier. I feel happy. I feel wanted. I feel needed.