The men lined up one by one, rank and file, ready to die in the killing fields, they were boys really, dressed in men's uniforms, but they lined up in formation just like men, they could stop a bullet as well as anyone. They stood and stared at the other open graves across the battlefield, the ones that they wanted to close. The boys across the way were the enemy, and they were gunning to fill some barren empty earth with lifeless bodies as well.
It’s awkward, to say the least, then the shells streamed alive, like comets having orgasms, every so often they would streak across the terrifying, heat-searing sky, as blasts of carnage and hell on earth exploded all around.
"Are we gonna' die?" the scared kid asked, Kevlar shaking and trembling hard on his sweaty brow.
The captain acted like he knew what he was doing and screwed them all while the others prepared to die by making amends with fantasy sins that don't amount to a pile of beans in the end.
The brave boy stood up, cool and calm, and said, "Let's storm the hill boys, let's make some money and catch them by surprise, let us take this day home for the Lord."
He got his head blown slap off before he hit the battlefield. Life’s not fair. No one ever said that it was. People assume that life is fair, that it’s a level playing field, but it’s not, it’s a cesspool filled with infant death and car wrecks and flat tires and cavities, and if you’re lucky you get to deal with six or seven decades full of it.
I can make just about anything work too, but I’m not stupid enough to stick my head out of the sand. The first guy to stick his head out always gets whacked. That’s the rule of war, and life is war whether you want to admit it or not. No religion, no philosophy can change that fact.
The worst thing that can possibly happen to a parent or a sibling that has survived infant death is for them to bottle it in, to not vent. There has to be some type of release, be it a dream, writing, chopping wood, working out, or building a foundation to help other parents with a similar issue. A wound has to breathe air to heal.