The Window of a Warrior

The sun creates a yellow glare against the portrait of the world outside my window. The grass outside has not been cut in a month or two. Its lighter tips almost reach the bottom of the hammock now, and its toppling ends droop over into my childhood sand box. When I reached sixteen, my father placed this chore on me, and I dread the sound of the lawn mower every time. In fact, I dread most duties placed upon me these days. School for me is difficult and unfulfilling. I tell my father this and he responds with a simple “Well, you better get used to feeling unfulfilled.” My need for travel and my need for change urge to scream back at him, but my lips remain closed and my gaze fixed upon the grass.
I stare outside a while longer and my eyes catch a spark of red, white, and blue. The thought of Memorial Day returns to me and I remember the marine that visited my school the day before, addressing the holiday. The military has always interested me and its bait of travel and adventure lured me like a fish in the early morning. My parents remain unaware, but my decision has been made for some time now. There is life in the army, and staring out this window, viewing the insisting grass, makes me yearn for that life more intensely.
* * *
Two years ago I stared outside the window of my house, the sun glare dying the backyard and its inhabitants all shades of gold, the sand, the hammock, and the grass. It has been a long two years since then. I have experienced war and its horrors, like a lens, have focused my eyes with greater clarity through my window. The grass is tall again, but all I see is the sand. The little box of sand my parents laid for me when I was young takes on a new familiarity. My mind conjures up the image of blood, the image of my comrade falling, and now the grass feels brooding, covering my imagination and silencing my thoughts.
The electric shine of my neighbor’s flag shocks me once again. Hanging at half mast, I realize those red stripes are meant for me. That blood that spills to weave those scarlet threads is now from my friends and superiors. Everything seems touched with gloom outside my window. I think the sun is warm today, and it might be better if I go outside for a while, and step outside the glass. My hammock looks inviting, but a duty is calling me. Cutting the grass just doesn’t seem like such a hardship anymore, and I gladly start the rumble of the mower. There is life outside my window, and all I should have done was looked.

"All the times you've slipped right through my hands
I'd cover you with anything
My arms only reach so far"-Piebald

i liked this piece...until the last few lines...or maybe its just the last line...

you give a feeling of regret in the last line, (as though a different path should have been taken)...and i think it should be more a sense of fulfillment(because the person is fighting to protect the life 'outside the window')...

just my two cents...nice job overall...

"you said there would not be any reason to fear this world, but you're the reason, but you're the reason i feel broken and branded and burning with doubt"
~further seems forever

it was a sense of regret, but not in the way you're suggesting or at least thats not what i meant. hes realizing that there was life outside that he shouldnt hav dismissed before. being in the war made him appreciate the simple things, like cutting the grass. There is plenty of "life" in doing such a simple task to help your family, and he is realizing that.

thanks for reading.

"All the times you've slipped right through my hands
I'd cover you with anything
My arms only reach so far"-Piebald