I stand before a graveyard stone and try to imagine success. You know the kind – where generals fail but privates triumph.

I repeat for the sake of the conscience grinding in my thoughts — success is cold and it's fragile, can strike against you if the ones like me don't live up to it.

You, father, imagine success in the world where no one else is buried here, a bullet in one leg, a pin in the other, a mustached soldier fifty years to the good of carrying his babies.