Home for Christmas
In 1997, I remember frantically stuffing everything I owned into 2 large and bulging duffel bags with my name stenciled on the sides. I quickly laced up my combat boots and walked out into the biting Oklahoma wind.
I had just finished 16 weeks of hellish training as an artillery observer for the Army. Having endured live rounds, the wrath of drill sergeants, a broken finger I fixed myself with duct tape, and situations I thought only existed in Hollywood movies - standing with frozen blue fingertips at the bus stop seemed a small price to pay:
I was going home for Christmas.
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