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Scent of Shadows

The Iraq War was launched last year on my birthday. March 19th.

Cotton and I stood in the long grass of the hillside and watched them toss the bodies into a deep gully next to the lilac fields. The scent of lilacs rose like a veil.
They used to just dump them on the side of the hill, next to the road, but it became too much. Even the long, thick grass couldn't hide the human refuse after a while. The once verdant hillside wilted, its tendrils of grass stained black.
Children used to ride their bicycles close to the edge and look over to see if they could recognize anyone. Any body. It became a gruesome game of Dare.
Who would dare get closest? The game ended for good when one of the children saw her mother rotting under the August sun.
When they stopped leaving bodies on the hillside, and began throwing them down into the unnatural ravine, the grass healed, though it was more gray in hue, as if it had aged. The lilacs never faltered, however. Their gentle aroma always a saving protection.
Holding hands, Cotton and I strolled through the thick veldt, in love, oblivious to the open graveyard below. This was our daily oasis. Once, I found a large, torn American flag on the roadside above which I laid on the grass, and Cotton and I made love upon it near the stench of the trench and the scream-stifled steam billowing into azure. Cotton's hair was red. Her skin white. Eyes blue. She liked to wear lavender lilacs in her hair, the fragrance so sensual.
The steam from each charred body drifted like souls, high and away into the sky, eventually dissipating in the winds blowing from America. Occasionally, they got lazy, and bodies would be dumped on the hillside from time to time.
One day, I saw Cotton there. God! How I miss the scent of lilacs.