I’m home for Christmas, just not in once piece, so forgive me if I don’t feel at home. It’s a price we pay. The hysteria as I’m paraded and put on exhibition leaves me numb, so forgive me if I don’t join in the seasonal cheer. There are many others just like me, but it doesn’t stop me feeling alone. Am I supposed to be a hero? I’ve done nothing heroic, though that’s not what the decorations imply. But to these people I’m a representative, of something, though I’m not sure of what – it was never made clear. Do they know why I had to suffer? They don’t see the cruelty in their adulation. This isn’t where I want to be. Sure, it’s home. It’s homely, and they say that’s because I’m here. But it’s not really my home. I won’t be home for Christmas, where I long to be, out there in the snow, with all my friends. Instead, I stand here, a tribute to felled comrades. Who’d be a tree.