The Ballad Of Sergeant Left

Somewhere along the borderline of childhood and adulthood, Allister buried his favorite tin soldier. He had held onto him longer than most kids his age. But, the day finally came. The feeling was there. And Allister knew it was time.

The soldier bore the marks of many battles. Battles between opposing tin soldiers and evil stuffed animals. The color of his uniform had faded with time (and several campaigns where the solider was left outside in inclement weather for days on end). But, those were not the reasons for the burial. With each scar, with each mark, Allister had grown more fond of his tin comrade. Oh, he had received newer toys, newer soldiers. But, even after his tin soldier's right hand inexplicably fell off, Allister only looked on him with more pride. Sergeant Left was his soldier of choice.

And the reason for his eventual burial was not a forced decision. Allister's parents knew the subtle difference between a nudge and a step. And, so, they let Allister get there on his own. And he did. Taking Sergeant Left on missions, finding time for him, began to feel like a chore. Began to feel like a weight, like something Allister had to do. And it had never felt that way before. In his younger days, expeditions and battles and further heroics had just flowed out of Sergeant Left. He had been able to do anything.

But, the day had come. And Allister knew somewhere in his heart that the day had come mostly for himself and not Sergeant Left. The Sergeant could have fought more battles. He could have gone on. He had it in him. The Sergeant could have accompanied Allister. Sure. Sergeant Left would have served proudly and valiantly in the upcoming Allister mission which bore the cleverly clear name of Operation Growing Up (the objective: to understand who Allister was). Sergeant Left could have hid in the foxhole of one of Allister's many pockets and provided backup in the battles for jobs and rent and love and all the unnamed battles that led into the darkened forest of the future. But, it was Alliaster who felt the weight of Sergeant Left's metal. And, even though Allister knew tin was a rather light metal, it pulled him down. It was holding him back. Holding both of them back.

All the other soldiers of Sergeant Left's time were long gone. And Sergeant Left's sworn service to him was coming to a close.

So, Allister placed him in a tobacco tin, dug a hole behind his house (where the yard met the woods), and buried his comrade. He saluted the grave and did his best to whistle a respectable version of Taps.

He stifled a tear or two (goodbyes are never easy-even when one party or the other was an inanimate object) and he imagined Sergeant Left's future. Surely, there was a reason Allister had to move on without him. Greater things were to come. For both of them. But, it was up to Allister to take the first step. So, he did. Allister stepped from his tin comrade's grave and headed into the future.

And, just like that, Sergeant Left's story flowed forth in Allister.

Perhaps years from then, Allister thought, another kid would live in the Cromley family home and would stumble upon the tobacco tin and conjure up a new mission for Sergeant Left. Or, perhaps, time would hide Sergeant Left from human contact until the future had entirely forgotten him. And, if time hid him long enough, perhaps humans would evolve into a species that knew nothing of tiny tin soldiers or the tobacco tins they rested in. And, then (perhaps, of course), an archeologist would stumble upon Sergeant Left's grave and a whole new mythology would unfold. Maybe (yes, it could happen!), the future archeologist would theorize that Sergeant Left was the last of a tiny tin race of people and he would be revered and written about in history books! Tin monuments would be built to and for him. Yes, ideas and plotlines and a new life would unravel. It may seem ridiculous to some.

But, as Allister stepped away, he felt the ballad of Sergeant Left continue.

The 8 AM Train

There were mornings on the elevated train, on the way to work, when it all seemed so clear to Allister. There was something that was not there the day before and may not have been the day after.

The train doors slid open and he stepped in and all around were the weathered faces, their bodies armored in down and layered in cotton. And he wondered if it was there. If on that morning they felt it, too. That they were, at once, so fragile (simple turns and twitches could destroy even the strongest among them) and yet so durable. That bodies bent and shaped into so many forms. That dreams and desires burst from hearts in as many varieties as the body could form. Some of them headed to work, some home, some smiled, some bowed heads in retreat, some stood, some sat, some old, some young, and so much in between.

And the train moved and shook. It jolted every so often to remind them that they were simply boxed in by sheets of steel held together by steel rivets. And they believed that the steel would hold and that, barring some inexplicable accident, they would all arrive at their destination-some so much earlier and some so much later than expected. And, knowing that there lay obstacles beyond their control, they still walked through the sliding doors.

And it was there. In those that sat and those that stood, in those that entered and those that left. In those that held in a robust laugh and those that held in a pained sob, waiting for the doors to part at their destination so that they could let forth their emotion in the open. Allister felt there were no words that accurately described the feeling. But, it penetrated their armor. It was a a vibe. It was a crescendo that rose from the depths of all that they had been given and all that they had lost. And Allister swore to me (and he would to you, too) that there were mornings on the train when he felt it beating so strongly-as if he and all the passengers were standing directly above the pulse. And, even as the train plummeted into the darkness below the streets, they pulsed.