The Battered Suitcase

Old and battered
Smells of dust told of times long ago
The smell of travel
Lined with fabric
Salty sea air and petrol exhaust
Humid places and bitter cold
Happiness and depression
Reminds me of him, of his glasses and his calloused hands
Of stories of war.
Sitting in his wheelchair, his briefcase tucked away behind the couch. Scratched and worn like him
Tales of guns and Nazis, many a soul lost.
Men falling one by one.
Shouts of pain all blending together
A gun rolling out of a hand, an explosion somewhere in the fog
Men running out of the trenches.