“WHOLE”

The bed draws in, the vortex hums,
A coffin’s whisper in a temporary tomb.
He slides inside the MRI,
A long, low moan like men who die
With open eyes and final gasps,
The kind that still invade his naps.

He closes his lids to block the thought,
But memory does not need his sight.
Blood-stained boots and sandy ground,
Echoes of the explosive sound.
A friend’s last breath, a ragged sigh,
That damned repeated question: Why wasn’t it I?

His legs scream fire with burning flame,
Nerves gone rogue, but pain all the same.
A lower back stabbed by a ghost,
A shoulder forged with metal post.
He numbs the terror on the rocks in a glass,
Pretends the storm will someday pass.

The kids still laugh, the bills still come,
He jokes he works, he play the “one
Who’s lucky.” That’s what others see,
A man-shaped shell of who he used to be.

They say he looks like he’s OK,
But never see the price he pays:
The dream where muzzle flashes gleam,
Where friends live on only in his dreams.
Where hands reach out but slip away,
He screams at the lost that will not stay.

Yet when the scan reaches its end,
He thinks not of the things that bend,
Or break, or burn within his frame,
But of five voices who know his name:
Of one strong woman by his side,
Of kids they’ve made, and those who died.

He will not go where demons call,
Though shadows climb his bedroom wall.
He’ll lace his boots and rise again,
To chase the morning, dull the pain.
For those Airborne Rangers in the sky,
He presses on because they died.

And if the world can’t see his soul,
It’s fine, he never asked to be whole.
He just asks for strength to stand,
For grit to grip his children’s hands.
To honor fallen brothers’ names,
By bearing both the scars and flame.

What’s left to do but Ranger on?
Lamenting the past is a fool’s errand.
Enduring the pain like a surround sound stereo,
Quitting’s not an option, the worst-case scenario.

So he keeps pressing on for his kids and wife,
Grateful in his forties to still have life.
Plenty of nights in his twenties,
He doubted he’d see thirty.
Every day with them is a gift,
Every youth ballgame a lift.

Thankful he’s still here in spite of the pain,
Never forgetting those lost when his heart starts to rain.
Those already enjoying the big patrol base in the sky,
They’re at peace now, pain free, someday he too will fly.
Until then he’ll move on to the next objective,
“New normal” they say, to him sounds subjective.

It may look different than the past,
But he accepts his burden, more rocks in the rucksack.
Invisible wounds still exist, but he’ll manage inside,
Moral injury occurred, no reason to hide.
So, he’ll share his story with others, including his past.
To prove the cost of freedom isn’t free and can evaporate fast.

So, despite your beliefs in whether war should be waged,
Support the warfighter who volunteered on that stage.
Say more than “thank you,” listen to our story-filled soul,
It won’t fill the gaping hole in our hearts but will help us feel “whole.”

_________________________________________

Mike Kelvington grew up in Akron, Ohio. He is an Infantry officer in the U.S. Army with experience in special operations, counterterrorism, and counterinsurgency operations over twelve deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, including with the 75th Ranger Regiment. He’s been awarded the Bronze Star Medal with Valor and two Purple Hearts for wounds sustained in combat. He is a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, a Downing Scholar, and holds masters degrees from both Princeton and Liberty Universities. The views expressed on this website are his own and do not necessarily reflect those of the U.S. Army or DoD.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.