Kuwaiti Exchange

The sign on the door reads, “Please keep closed. Air conditioning is on.”

Entering, it hits me.

A kiosk of keychains.

We had not been inside a building for months.

A shelf of sneakers.

Many had lost legs, feet to IEDs and shrapnel.

A carousel of chocolate.

It’s 130 degrees.

Watches.

Only if they can make time go faster.

Souvenirs.

Because we need something to help us remember?

Stuffed toys. Trinkets. Hard cover books. Video games.

Kitchen utensils. Humorous tee shirts

And shoppers.

Gazing. Evaluating. Choosing.

Shopping in air, conditioned for indifference.

Hungry, I order a pizza. A long-awaited-baked-for-me pizza.

A few bites.

I can’t.

I offer it to the sun-darkened, dusty Marines at the next table.

“No, thank you. We can’t eat either.”

I look for the head.

A sign directs me out the door to a trailer marked: “Women.”

Urgently, I find a stall.

Smarter than brain or heart, my bowels loose their contents.

Skin follows, soaking my uniform.

I remove my overblouse.

Combat boots. Boot bands. Laces. Socks.

Feet on the cool floor, eyes closed, I breathe.

Not enough.

Pants. Belt.

Sweat-stained, sun-faded, dirt-washed tee shirt.

Everything else.

I breathe again.

And stand.

Inside a building, in the electric light and cooled air, next to a flush toilet.

I stand until sweat and tears dry.

I dress and head for the exchange.

The sign on the door reads, “Please keep closed. Air conditioning is on.”

I reach for the handle,

but I can’t return.

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