For Harry (My College Room-mate who Died) by Ivan Donn Carswell
He cut his hand and it bled, the flesh inside was red and the hurt discounted the flood of red and vibrant blood that pulsed from the wound. But he was a warrior, a son whose mien would not countenance the pain and he bound the wound in strips of flax and stalked from the field of death with disdain.
When he returned from the dead he said he cut himself hunting pigs with a bayonet. I remember the way he said it, the bandaged hand borne nonchalantly, a shy smile, an unambiguous admission, but he was scared more than I knew and he dared I should know for I learned, and we made amends for his sore, disabled hand. I wrote for him as I couldn’t read the words he penned to tell our teachers what he knew, and thus I learned a new Harry.