The Young Soldier

My eighteenth birthday had just passed; I was now called a man. My mind, lost and restless, as I thought of the radical life. I packed just one bag, and my lucky boots. With my shorts and white t-shirt, I was ready to leave. I turned once more and saw mother and brother waving. Yes! I entered the double-decker bus just like other boys like me, but no! I didn’t want to go. I had found a place to sit-just by the window. I gave the house one last glance, and saw mother weeping because of the stories she’d heard, and brother sitting on the floor of the balcony, head down and hoodie over him. ‘I will be back’, I whispered under my breath.