Broken Windows

        A looking glass to reality. Trucks driving by, leaves gliding with the wind, rain, snow, more rain. The pavement a deep black and glistening with dew. The crunch of dead leaves under tan boots. A telephone pole, charred and weathered. A stop sign in two languages, partially hidden by overgrown brush and branches. Cigarette butts littering the edges of the street. One street light, dull and dark yellow, entirely out of date. Trees like giants, towering over the buildings and mountainous from a distance. Face planted firmly in front of the sheet of smudged glass, that separates me from all of that. all the people, all the soldiers walking and crunching and talking and smoking by my window. Crackles of laugh spontaneously erupt and make me jump. Huddles form not 10 feet away, soldiers in civies and flip flops in the winter, they are KATUSA’s. Korean-American soldiers, wearing our digital camo but not our flag and not the title. They keep me up and they keep me annoyed when they form these huddles. Like a team on a time out figuring out the plan. But no, hours on end, I can only imagine they are speaking babble, useless conversations. I don’t know why, but their laughter annoys me and it’s not because I can’t understand their language, it’s just the way they do it. So forced and meaningless and constant. I wish I could look out my window and only see trees, trees with red leaves and trees bare. Trees that stretch up and out and around. Some grass and some snow. But no tar black road with layers of flat rain drops. No cigarette butts and trash. No people, soldiers, KATUSA’S. I just want to look out and see the countryside. Not a broken down base with more foreign aspects than American. 

I think my window is broken and I know it will never be fixed. 

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