The war was all over my hands. I held the war and I watched them die in high-definition. I could watch anyone die, but I looked away. Still, I wore the war on my back. I put it on every morning. I walked the dogs and they too wore the war. The sky overhead was clear or it was cloudy or it rained or it snowed, and I was rarely afraid of what would fall from it. I worried about what to do with my car, or how much I could send my great-aunt this month and the next. I ate my hamburger, I ate my pizza, I ate a salad or lentil soup, and this too was the war. At times I was able to forget that I was on the wrong side of the war, my money and my typing and sleeping sound at night. I never learned how to get free. I never learned how not to have anyone’s blood on my own soft hands.