I came back from the bombs and the explosions and the dust of sand that entered my lungs. I came back from the screams of wounded comrades, where red against the white sand was my reality and camo was the very thing I wore everyday. I came back to a world where it seems, that it has simply filled my place up with another, and that I don't belong here anymore. But I promised that I would return.
It's a large city is what it is. It's like a labyrith with it's endless streets and districts, where the good and bad combine. There are folks here of every culture, of every skin color and I like it, for it's these days that everybody accepts me for who I am. I'm not a G.I. Joe no more, I'm back in another skin, another walk of life, and I try to relish these days, when I got about a thousand hugs from relatives and friends, when I walked on actual grass in my own clothes, when I didn't carry a heavy backpack over one shoulder, and a couple pounds of heavy metal in my arms. I take it that I've finally come home.
And yet, as I laugh, and cry and joke around with family, friends, a strange pulling in my heart makes me contemplate what I've just admitted, what I've just said. It isn't that i've returned home. Not in a long shot. Because when I walk into the restaurant and see all my brothers and sisters in arms, crowded around a small dingy table, and giving the waiter hell, I know that I've found my home, in the hearts of those who've been there for me in the deepest pits of hell and back, those who've risked their lives for me are my house and heart and home.