Every morning, I forget what it’s like to sweat from every pore on my body. The glands fight against the humidity’s pressure, straining with every ounce of sweat. Sluggish as the temperature rises to keep my pores barreling the gates.

Every morning, I forget the feeling of a Humvee’s armor under my naked fingertips. Every bump, every ridge, every accent of the hood glides like my fingerprint. 211, my Humvee. The same tan shade, never tarnished by others’ abuse. O!, the curves and drops. I wash meticulously.

Every morning, I forget the crunch of gravel under my boots. It rolls my ankle left right left, trying to catch me off guard and send me flying to the ground with 40 pounds of body armor and a six pound carbine. I’ve fallen many times; the equipment on me must not. Shame falls upon all of us if our rifles make noise. Even when fired, we quietly expect our rifles to maintain this silence; when they talk, they scream.

Every morning, I start all over again.