Words of War -Jennie

While the rest of the world was at work last week, I smugly stirred cinnamon into a decaf Americano at a swanky little coffeehouse. My husband was at work, the kids were at school, and although I don’t drink coffee, it seemed like a very writer-ish thing to do.

So there I am, stir, stir, and this smart-looking stranger sidles over to me at the “bar,” and slides me the front page of the New York Times. “What do you think of this?” he asks.

It’s a half-page photo of an American soldier, dead on a street in Iraq.

I push it back. “I don’t look at that war stuff,” I say. “I don’t read about it or watch it on TV. It makes me too sad.”

Suddenly my coffee looks like mud.

The stranger sizes me up through his smart glasses. “What do you do about it, then?”

I stir and stir and think for a minute.

“Well,” I tell him. “I teach writing. And I’ve had quite a few veterans in my classes. They write and write and write about the war.”

I don’t tell him, but there have been stories about the sewage stench of Kandahar, a Taliban ambush on Valentine’s Day, the helicopter ride home with a body-bagged buddy.

“I listen,” I tell him.

He nods, satisfied, and leaves.

It’s a small part, listening. But maybe it’s important. Maybe if we were all better listeners, there’d be fewer wars in the first place.