The world is shrinking. I am not in Iraq, I am in the smallest town in America, wondering what sunlight looks like when not reflected in armored cars or shut out by high concrete walls.
There are few new faces in this town except for the rotating guards monitoring the incoming traffic on the airfield.
The familiar town citizens only look different at dusk, in the smokey cigar ember light, when they shed their uniforms for PTs (a gray ARMY shirt and black shorts), but those with a swagger still move their hips and those with a limp still land heavily with one foot and I know their names from a mile away.
The faces only change in the rising dust storms. Hats, sunglasses and scarves cover those recognizable features, but soldiers wear their names on their chest, like scars or trophies and I know their names if I get close enough.
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