I saw the men walking across the bridge.
All of them happy that they were alive.
But not a single one of them showing it.
All of them remembering the friends they had lost.
The sadness laying like a thick cloud above them.
I could see that they weren’t the people who had left a few months ago.
They were different.
The men who came back were no longer boys.
They were now men.
Men who had seen too much.
And wished they could go back to being boys.
I saw these men and I, foolishly, wished I could be like them.
I wished I was one of them.
I saw only the heroes who had come back and I listened to their stories.
Not once did I stop to think about all those who didn’t come back.
Those who would boys.
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