Coming Home Written 11 NOV 12

It has been almost 9 months since I have come home to Florida. For good reason too, a very dear friend of mine left the military more than a year ago and coming home isn't the same without him. I come home to this town in which most of my friends have left, as I have, and what remains are often, but not exclusively the dregs of my high school class. My town is one of those where if you do not escape it, and quickly you will be 40 years old, middle management at Wendy's, smoking the same weed, from the same dealer you were when you were 16. This was all too apparent last night. I ventured beach side last night, a place of many good and bad memories,to visit an old friend of mine. She is working at the same diner she did when we were in high school, she works diligently on her families farm and is a very talented artist. I don't view her in the same light I view a lot of people in this town, perhaps its idealism because she is beautiful and her and I might of had something were it not for the perpetual and continuous bad timing. Sitting at the bar with her and her boyfriend I watched as 20 something's, and 30 something's trash talked about the decline of our nation, complained about their menial jobs. I watched the cougars stare at me with curiosity and the men nervously glance at my Combat Medic sweatshirt. Each looking to avoid, or consume, me for their own advantage. As I slammed my empty glass onto the bar, I caught the eye of a lady across the bar, I'd say she was in her early 30's, once beautiful, but now weathered and more pretty. From chatter I gathered she worked in the attached restaurant. With the warmth of liquor in my gut and the tarnished glimmer in her eyes I couldn't help thinking how easy it would be. I could work as an EMT, make decent money, we could have a nice respectable apartment, we'd never fight, spend our evenings at the same bar, come home and smoke the same weed. No medical school, no big wedding, no more nightmares, no more pain, no more betrayal, and most importantly no more guilt. It would be a nice simple life. Perhaps they're far more intelligent than I give them credit for. She turned her gaze back to her friend, I left a tip on the table, took one last glance, and stepped off into the breeze.