The uniform hangs there. An Olive ghost. It has hung there all day Saturday, a cruel reminder that tomorrow it will be possessed again, no longer lifeless. It is clean and perfectly pressed, a glimmering pin and light blue ribbons on the sleeves softens the harshness of the Army tone. He stands in front of it and stares, hoping maybe he can scare it into submission and it will tuck itself away back in the closet. But it's Sunday, the cruelest day for soldiers, and the uniform will not be defeated. So, slowly he puts it on.
Pants. Belt. Tourniquet in the pocket. Shirt. Beret. Gun.
And he says goodybe to his family. The elevator takes us down to the street where we walk quietly to the stop. And we go separate ways and wait until the next time when the ghost returns.
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