Lavender
Author’s Note: Taking inspiration from “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien, I wrote a creative piece on the character Ted Lavender, whose death triggers a new meaning of war. This piece follows Ted’s journey after death.
Lavender like the color or Lavender like the flower? It was all the same to Ted. For he was already humped across the paddy wrapped in the cold of his own poncho. He had dropped, like cement, so up was next. Up had to be next. Up was where this chopper was taking him, so that was where he must be headed. Lavender is what you use to coerce yourself to sleep, the flower, I mean. Ted was definitely not one to coerce, but perhaps one to succumb to coercion. Perhaps it’s the reason he is here now. But it’s sweet coercion, almost aromatic. Ted was sweet, a sweet, sweet man. But sometimes Ted was too sweet, like a cavity, even for himself. I do feel sleepy. He was tranquil, tranquilized, by both the weight of his baggage and the bullet. Gravity used to hold him down, and all that dead weight, but that didn’t matter anymore. Up was the only place he could go. Up was the place he went when he was scared. Up was the warmth he sought when cold took over. Up was the euphoria when sadness reigned. Up was a haven, a heaven. But lavender was pretty – humbler than purple but definitely more regal than lilac. He was humble. At least he believed he was humble. He definitely was humble and humbled more often than not. But Ted was no lilac. Lilac was weak, lilac was down, but Ted could carry his weight and more. He carried those SOP items like this poncho, a flak jacket, M-16 maintenance gear, rations, toilet paper, water, 25 rounds of ammunition, and his helmet, but he also carried 9 extra rounds of ammunition, starlight scope, 7 ounces of dope, because I was scared, tranquilizers and of course, his unweighted fear. And sometimes he got higher, with all his dead weight. So he wasn’t lilac and he should be able to get up just fine. He rolled over now, like a rag doll, flimsy, falling over. He spilled out of his loosely wrapped poncho, breaking boundaries for once in his life. He felt himself falling, up, floating, down. Direction was a mere vector, it didn’t apply to him anymore. Color or not, flower or not, Lavender sounds good, Lavender sounds right. Up or not, he’s got to go somewhere. Somewhere, must go somewhere, not here. Not here. Ted is not here.
