The Broken Soldier 

 

My wind up toy moves in a curved line.  It is a red, white and blue soldier.  I position it to walk into the wall.  It falls over and breaks.  The head falls off.  It’s okay.  Dad will glue it back on.  For now, I’ll just put it back, line up the cracks and it fits fine.  You have to squeeze the head on tight while you wind it up or it falls off again.

The head fell off when I dropped it.  It was in my hand but it fell out.  I don’t remember how, exactly, because I was holding onto it tight, but when you’re falling down the stairs and your feet hit the railing and your arms and head and butt take turns bouncing off the metal corners and linoleum steps and the wood posts, nothing works for a while -- your hand doesn’t close, your body is rolled up like a t-shirt, it’ll be months after surgery until the wires holding your jaw together can come out so you can start to learn how to speak again.

Daddy will fix my wind up toy.  It crashes into the wall and the head falls off.  The soldier doesn’t smile.  The paint is chipped on his neck and cheek.  The black paint hairline crosses under to his green helmet.  He has a red cross on his white arm band.  I think he is brave, like me.  Together we stop wars.  Like the one we stopped between mommy and daddy.  We charged into the battle screaming, but an explosion made us fall down.  Down the stairs.  Now mommy and daddy don’t fight any more.  My soldier and I brought peace to the world.  As long as I play with my soldier, there is peace.  Everyone knows how brave we are and that we can stop wars.

I wind up my soldier.  His head falls off in my hand.  He is not smiling.  I am smiling, though.  Daddy will fix my wind up toy.

 

© Trumanji 

Brief bio:

Trumanji lives under a fig tree in Eastern Oregon,

works as an architectural designer, acupuncturist and

herbalist, artist and writer, is the publisher of

Gentle Strength

Quarterly(www.gentlestrengthquarterly.com), and loves

being a father.