He brought gifts for all us.
For me
Vietnamese dolls,
silk pajamas
and heart shaped bars of soap, pink
like
his eyes, from too
little sleep
and tears,
finally released.
This stranger filled our dining room.
His dress blues and overwhelming demeanor,
in stark contrast
to the soft white and chiffon yellow
which hung across windows,
and defined our lives.
Our sights and sounds
mingled with his freshly showered skin.
He sought to absorb us,
as if our essence could purge
the horror which caked his flesh
and permeated his spirit.
Assimilate
Pink was the color of his rage.
He raged against Johnson, and then Nixon
he raged against Mcgovern even more.
He raged against hippies,
and draft dodgers
and against those who would not employ him.
He raged against children who were too loud, too bubbly, or too busy being children.
He raged against a changed wife, grown independent in his absence.
Mostly though,
he raged against himself,
and because life went on without him.
Immediate and treacherous,
his was never a slow subtle brew.
Marked with lightening quick strikes
and thunderous blows
he leveled everything in his path.
He would tremble in the aftermath.
Beg forgiveness
until his next storm hit.
The calm never fooled us.
There was always a next storm.
I was his Cat-Cat
His name does not appear on a wall,
although the best of him died on foreign soil,
Hollowed, he returned an empty man.
I've tried to imagine myself in his nightmare.
Terror festered inside, simmered under his skin,
I imagine
white knuckled nights.
Prey hiding from predator.
He, with our pictures tucked in his pocket,
praying for enough cover, enough dark, enough luck to persevere until the next pink sunrise.
I try to envision death through his frightened eyes.
Fear mixed with relief. Relief tempered by guilt.
Life and death held in trembling hands,
the same hands
which sent love home
to his little Cat- Cat,
in thick strokes of a black pen.
His war
Terror jarred him awake,
left sweat stains on pressed linen.
Irreconcilable grief
ate holes through soft intestinal tissue.
Pink is the color of vomit when milk, (meant to soothe),
mixes with blood.
I recall once when the neighbors played target practice.
The first sound of gunfire sent
this giant of a man
falling to the ground.
He shimmied across half an acre,
elbow after elbow dug into sand and grass
until he pulled himself to the safety of our Michigan basement.
Mama found him curled in a corner,
crying.
When fear subsided,
reality smacked his face.
Scarlet anger stormed with long strides across back yards,
shook angry fists
and yelled obscenities at alarmed faces.
Faces which turned from fear to ridicule,
(when safe distance allowed).
Taunts of ignorance
followed him back to our yard,
crept across our dinner table,
seeped through the 6 o'clock news,
and always back into his nightmare.
We tried to step around his issues.
But his issues were large
and our legs too small.
Peace
Memories are vague, like reasons for war, subject to individual interpretation.
My memories are patchy.
The biography of this man lay like scraps of material
collected from many hands,
an unfinished quilt,
incomplete and offering little warmth.
Before he could cast a write in against Mcgovern,
before he found a job, which may have restored his pride,
before he could repair his legacy with his children,
before he could make peace within himself
fever racked his body,
ulcers depleted his strength
and his time ran out.
In his final visit with Mama
He spoke of lights and Heaven
and an angel, (whom he said looked just like her) ,
with arms outstretched calling him home.
He begged more time from an impatient God.
He begged forgiveness from a tired wife.
He pleaded with her
to remind his children, how much he loved them.
She did.
Some of us believed her,
others did not.
Love,
like war,
has many colors
and is subject to individual interpretation.
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