Imagined thoughts of Kyra as Bravo departs:
My life as I know it is dead. Everyone I knew, every place I visited, gone. How to write of this, or even speak of it. Words and emotions have never been close. Translation falls to hell and frustration burns beyond the fingers to soothe. Where we go from here seems pointless. I feel like the soldier who survives the massacre, standing amidst smoke and fire, surveying a landscape of death, of the hand of fate upon the entire company, save one, save myself. Some ghosts still walk with blood in their veins. I know. I am one of them.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
792. water and fish and such
I would say you mean the world to me but that would be like a fish saying that water was important.
Overheard, Trev to Em
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
an easy smile
An easy smile. He never had it. Apparently, neither do I. I’ve been told not to trust my eyes. Been told that within his weathered visage, past those watery eyes, his heart was good. Fair enough. We all have our beliefs and who is to say what is real and what is not. But I know this. Treasure buried is still treasure buried. Won’t pay my bills no more than that check he said he’d write, that night, over several beers, to buy me some new basketball shoes. Thirty years later, I still remember sitting on that shag carpet, in his bedroom. He was drunk. In bed. Doing most of the talking. Beer tended to soften him and in that softened state he asked if I needed anything. Basketball shoes I said. No problem he said. Whatever you want. I never got my shoes. Never said a word. Neither did he.
economics
first draft:
He would take another sip of beer, (the edges of his day (smoothing) the edges of his day). His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet (loyal as the dog he refused to own). The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. It was unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
__________
second draft:
He would take another sip of beer, smoothing the edges of his day. His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. His wallet looked liked an overstuffed hamburger. Always. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet. The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. Unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked. It was this way not just for a night or even a few sporadic nights. Decades. The man was, if nothing else, consistent. Untiringly committed to his view. Position entrenched. And I thought of a sentry, guarding some sacred ideal night and day, rain or shine.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
He would take another sip of beer, (the edges of his day (smoothing) the edges of his day). His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet (loyal as the dog he refused to own). The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. It was unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
__________
second draft:
He would take another sip of beer, smoothing the edges of his day. His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. His wallet looked liked an overstuffed hamburger. Always. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet. The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. Unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked. It was this way not just for a night or even a few sporadic nights. Decades. The man was, if nothing else, consistent. Untiringly committed to his view. Position entrenched. And I thought of a sentry, guarding some sacred ideal night and day, rain or shine.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
Monday, October 25, 2010
1944 (thoughts and notes)
thinking of Mary:
options--
. there is no pregnancy
. pregnant but miscarried (stress of war)
. pregnant but aborted (by her hand or Kate)
. baby carried to term (in Germany)
. under the Germany option--baby is adopted by Kathrin
. baby carried to term (in US)
. under US option, Mary’s father puts baby up for adoption
notes to the above:
Mary meets Virgil (nurse/soldier/France/1944) for one night before he dies. She is convinced it was love as she has never known and, over the next fifty years, claims never to be known again. She either becomes pregnant or she doesn’t. If she doesn’t, the story focuses on love, love loss, the management of grief and the edges of sanity. If she does become pregnant, she either goes AWOL and carries to term in Germany under Kathrin’s care with Kathrin adopting the baby as her own (for reasons not yet known) and all of the above with regard to love and loss takes on these new dimensions. In the US option, the army finds out Mary is pregnant and sends her home. Her father, who never wanted her to become a nurse (below the dignity of a woman, of his daughter) is horrified at the turn of events and arranges adoption. Mary sees her baby for less time than she had with Virgil and as soon as she is able, leaves home to never see her parents again. She relocates to the same town as Virgil’s parents and tries to make sense of her tragedy and so again the story becomes a study in the exploration of loss and sanity in the face of overwhelming despair. In this last option, there is the possibility that Mary and Virgil’s child finds her toward the end of of her life and the story ends with a coming full circle, a final healing and releasing.
options--
. there is no pregnancy
. pregnant but miscarried (stress of war)
. pregnant but aborted (by her hand or Kate)
. baby carried to term (in Germany)
. under the Germany option--baby is adopted by Kathrin
. baby carried to term (in US)
. under US option, Mary’s father puts baby up for adoption
notes to the above:
Mary meets Virgil (nurse/soldier/France/1944) for one night before he dies. She is convinced it was love as she has never known and, over the next fifty years, claims never to be known again. She either becomes pregnant or she doesn’t. If she doesn’t, the story focuses on love, love loss, the management of grief and the edges of sanity. If she does become pregnant, she either goes AWOL and carries to term in Germany under Kathrin’s care with Kathrin adopting the baby as her own (for reasons not yet known) and all of the above with regard to love and loss takes on these new dimensions. In the US option, the army finds out Mary is pregnant and sends her home. Her father, who never wanted her to become a nurse (below the dignity of a woman, of his daughter) is horrified at the turn of events and arranges adoption. Mary sees her baby for less time than she had with Virgil and as soon as she is able, leaves home to never see her parents again. She relocates to the same town as Virgil’s parents and tries to make sense of her tragedy and so again the story becomes a study in the exploration of loss and sanity in the face of overwhelming despair. In this last option, there is the possibility that Mary and Virgil’s child finds her toward the end of of her life and the story ends with a coming full circle, a final healing and releasing.
Monday, October 18, 2010
1944 (pieces of Mary)
There is nothing untrue about sunshine. He is this way. A life without shadows. Everything known, held. And loved. There is life in this kind of love. It is of light, warmth, home and hearth, of bread baking, a place of open windows and whispering candles. All as it is. Nothing as it is not. Just pure sunshine where clouds are clouds and rain is rain.
__________
He was coming home. Arriving by train. To see again what once walked, now carried, what should be walking, walking never more, of hands within wood and not upon it, of fences never mended, of grace not held, or spoken, or shared, to see the flag not flying, of patent leather shoes under granite faces, of woman in black not speaking, of men who had left their bibles at home under a coat of dust, and of children with wide eyes at rail and train and station. To see blue skies and hear nothing but my own thoughts and see nothing but dreams forever dreaming, forever stuck as death upon life, forever playing what was and what would never be. This is how Virgil arrived, or perhaps, of how I remembered it.
__________
As I age and I think of life, of what matters, of what we remember as important, I can’t help but think of holding and being held, in sunshine of course, but mostly against the darkness, when nothing pass your hand can be seen and all that can be heard is the beating of two hearts. As my days fade, too the memory, ever so faint, of his heart against mine and I wonder if what I remember now is simply the memory of a memory as I reach for coffee long grown cold in my absence. I harbor no bitterness and in this I marvel and wonder and in this way I see a shard of my difference, of a life I’ve lived alone and would gladly do again to have what we had, however brief, however fleeting.
__________
He was coming home. Arriving by train. To see again what once walked, now carried, what should be walking, walking never more, of hands within wood and not upon it, of fences never mended, of grace not held, or spoken, or shared, to see the flag not flying, of patent leather shoes under granite faces, of woman in black not speaking, of men who had left their bibles at home under a coat of dust, and of children with wide eyes at rail and train and station. To see blue skies and hear nothing but my own thoughts and see nothing but dreams forever dreaming, forever stuck as death upon life, forever playing what was and what would never be. This is how Virgil arrived, or perhaps, of how I remembered it.
__________
As I age and I think of life, of what matters, of what we remember as important, I can’t help but think of holding and being held, in sunshine of course, but mostly against the darkness, when nothing pass your hand can be seen and all that can be heard is the beating of two hearts. As my days fade, too the memory, ever so faint, of his heart against mine and I wonder if what I remember now is simply the memory of a memory as I reach for coffee long grown cold in my absence. I harbor no bitterness and in this I marvel and wonder and in this way I see a shard of my difference, of a life I’ve lived alone and would gladly do again to have what we had, however brief, however fleeting.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
1944 (the sound of rain)
I woke to the sound of rain, to grey sky. The house was quiet of all but steady drizzle. I made coffee, pulled my robe tight and sat before the small table in the kitchen. His notes and my cup my company.
His journal was then, as it is now, yellowed of page, his blood, the darkness of it, even then, fading. I turned the pages. Traced my finger over his graceful lines. Raised the notebook and breathed in all of France, all of war, all of what had taken my soul to heights and depths that made the rising sun nothing but an annoyance.
But I could not not turn the pages. My coffee grew cold. I drank it anyway. The rain continued to fall and I thought of mud, of slush, of the color of young blood mixing in foreign muck, of his blood upon my hands, of my thumb making the sign of the cross on his forehead, his cistern eyes growing still, the tension in his neck released.
I thought now of what I knew, of what his mother didn’t, of her grief and my obligation. I thought too of the burden of my own weakness and I heard the voices of doubt as I had heard the chorus a few days before, those voices rising into the dark of wooden beams above wooden pews. And still it rained. Not hard. Not in anger, but softly. Relentlessly. And what rained was within as without and as my sight from table to field was not clear, so too, nothing else.
Those days have not grown as so many others. Some root remains barren and bitter, producing no flower, nothing green, nothing of life. Nor do I know the way of releasing, of pruning as so many others have learned. So this burden, so heavy, I decided, I would carry alone. I could not then, nor can I now, envision the benefit of sharing, of sharing what I knew was, without embellishment, a needless death, of a boy alone, dying not in the hands that bore him, hands I would see but never hold.
His journal was then, as it is now, yellowed of page, his blood, the darkness of it, even then, fading. I turned the pages. Traced my finger over his graceful lines. Raised the notebook and breathed in all of France, all of war, all of what had taken my soul to heights and depths that made the rising sun nothing but an annoyance.
But I could not not turn the pages. My coffee grew cold. I drank it anyway. The rain continued to fall and I thought of mud, of slush, of the color of young blood mixing in foreign muck, of his blood upon my hands, of my thumb making the sign of the cross on his forehead, his cistern eyes growing still, the tension in his neck released.
I thought now of what I knew, of what his mother didn’t, of her grief and my obligation. I thought too of the burden of my own weakness and I heard the voices of doubt as I had heard the chorus a few days before, those voices rising into the dark of wooden beams above wooden pews. And still it rained. Not hard. Not in anger, but softly. Relentlessly. And what rained was within as without and as my sight from table to field was not clear, so too, nothing else.
Those days have not grown as so many others. Some root remains barren and bitter, producing no flower, nothing green, nothing of life. Nor do I know the way of releasing, of pruning as so many others have learned. So this burden, so heavy, I decided, I would carry alone. I could not then, nor can I now, envision the benefit of sharing, of sharing what I knew was, without embellishment, a needless death, of a boy alone, dying not in the hands that bore him, hands I would see but never hold.
Saturday, October 09, 2010
1944 (winter to come)
Leaves fell like days. He came no more as he would come never more and what seemed so alive just a few weeks before, was over. It felt like falling, like Fall, like the inexorable end not ended. And all to be seen was brown, used as summer uses fruit not picked. Still I came. And still I sat. And still I looked down the sidewalk for what I knew would never come. Just me and a rumble of regret that made coffee bitter among a mock of voices neither known nor wanted.
There would be a service at the church on the other end of main street. Words would be spoken among gray hair and black leather and ears would receive what minds could not hear. She would be there. I would see her. And again I would feel an anger in my stomach, the kind mother’s feel in survivorship, of divine visitation absent, of a home neither warm of hearth nor heart. We would have this silent bond as we would suffer, alone. I suppose if there ever was a point I wanted nothing more of life, it was here, awash cold stone under the cool light of winter to come. This was not home. But then again, neither was any place.
There would be a service at the church on the other end of main street. Words would be spoken among gray hair and black leather and ears would receive what minds could not hear. She would be there. I would see her. And again I would feel an anger in my stomach, the kind mother’s feel in survivorship, of divine visitation absent, of a home neither warm of hearth nor heart. We would have this silent bond as we would suffer, alone. I suppose if there ever was a point I wanted nothing more of life, it was here, awash cold stone under the cool light of winter to come. This was not home. But then again, neither was any place.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
1944 (Gone)
I would watch him in the warm morning light, some seventy years old. Face tanned. Eyes clear as cloudless sky blue. I wanted to approach. To talk. To breath the air that had breathed him. To feel the hand that had held what I had held. To hold the look he must have known.
But I couldn’t.
And yet, still, morning after morning, I came, watched. I soaked his every movement into my imaginary world and dreamed of a life never lived. I look back now, father resting as son somewhere in the green hills. Both gone, perhaps together, perhaps happy, perhaps looking, waiting, wanting, a meeting, that meeting of us, of family, of smiles and hugs and words whispered on lips of acceptance. How I would have loved that. Just that.
I still drink my coffee, black. I still think of those days of creaky wooden floors and worn leather soles. I feel like that, a soul weathered and worn, my eyes dimming, gloaming, days fading with memory. Then it happened. He came. My boy. And what was held, released. And what was imaginary, gone.
__________
second draft:
I would watch his father in the morning light, some seventy-years-old, face tanned, eyes blue as cloudless sky. I had wanted to approach him, to talk, to breath the air that he had breathed, to hold, but not so much as hold as to feel, yes, feel, the hand that had held what I had held. I wanted his eyes upon me. To look upon what had been the most precious thing to his son. And I wanted to share, all that I knew, all that had happened. But I couldn’t.
And yet, morning after morning, I came to the small restaurant off main street. I sat in the same chair at the same table before the same window to the street, waiting. He was, in his professorial way, punctual, walking neither fast nor slow, head down, newspaper tucked under his arm. His overalls, unlike the others, were always clean, and at times, looked almost pressed and I wondered whether by his hand or hers. His hair, coin silver, thick, was parted on the side, just as Virgil’s. He wore no facial hair and his nose, in profile, was as the nose I had known and it wasn’t hard to imagine I was seeing the father as the son would have been--this world I constructed, as real to me as the snow to fall, so beautiful, so ephemeral.
Those mornings, I remember now, of life, fragrant of farm, of the day not yet warm, the light golden and the paper fresh of what was. I remember the creaky wooden floor, the smell of leather worn, of coffee and eggs and white aprons. Voices too, of men, old men with humorless faces, of white cups and black coffee rising between words. I still hear the sound of plates, talk of weather and crops, of local politics, serious as drought. And I still see those glassy eyes, fresh from a war paid in children’s blood, of son’s who would never work the land, buried in plots not for them. They knew what I knew. The line stopped here. Nothing would be handed down. And for some, they would carry their name to granite and no further.
One morning, not too long after I had moved to Tennessee, he didn’t show up. The coffee that morning seemed bitter. He didn’t show the next either and as I came to learn from the paper I’d never see him carry again, he’d see Virgil before I would. I’d like to think he’d introduce me and that together, they’d wait. I’d like to think that what happened next, they had a hand.
__________
third draft:
I would watch Virgil’s father in the morning light, some seventy-years-old, face tanned, eyes cloudless sky blue. I had wanted to approach him, to talk, to breathe the air that he had breathed, to hold, but not so much as hold as to feel the hand that had held what I had held. I wanted his eyes upon me. To look upon what had been the most precious thing to his son. And I wanted to share, all that I knew, all that had happened between Virgil and I. For him to understand, to accept. And, perhaps, forgive.
Morning after morning, I came to the small restaurant off main street. I sat in the same chair at the same table before the same window to the street, and waited. He was, in his professorial way, punctual, walking neither fast nor slow, head down, newspaper tucked under his arm in the way one tucks an umbrella on a clear day. His overalls, unlike the others, were always clean, and at times, looked almost pressed and I wondered whether by his hand or hers. His silver hair, thick, was parted on the side, just as Virgil’s had been. He wore no facial hair and his nose, in profile, was as the nose I had known and it wasn’t hard to imagine I was seeing the father as the son would have been--this world I constructed, as real to me as falling snow, so beautiful, so ephemeral.
Those mornings, I remember now, of life, fragrant of farm, of the day not yet warm, the light golden and the paper fresh of what was. I remember the creaky wooden floor, the smell of leather worn, of coffee and eggs and white aprons. Voices too, of men, old men with humorless faces, of white cups and black coffee rising between words. I still hear the sound of plates, talk of weather and crops, of local politics, serious as drought. And I still see those glassy eyes, fresh from a war paid with children’s blood, of son’s who would never work the land, buried in plots not for them. They knew what I knew. The line stopped here. Nothing would be handed down. And for some, they would carry their name to granite and no further.
One morning, not too long after I had moved to Tennessee, he didn’t show up. The coffee that morning seemed bitter. Neither did he show the next and as I came to learn from the paper I’d never see him carry again, he’d see Virgil before I would. I’d like to think he’d introduce me and that together, they’d wait. I’d like to think that what happened next, they had a hand. I’d like to believe a lot of things, but to see the child Virgil never saw, to hold him as I never held his grandfather, to know that although the name was not the same, the blood would carry on--I’d like to believe that meant something. I’d like to believe I could be forgiven. I’d like to know, when my time comes, I’m going to a place with open arms. And that perhaps one day, what was torn apart by war, could be put back together.
__________
fourth draft:
Each morning, I watched him walk to breakfast in the soft morning light, some seventy-years-old, face tanned and set with eyes as cloudless sky blue as his son’s had been. I had wanted to approach him, to talk, to breathe the air that he had breathed, to hold the hand that had held what I had held. I wanted his eyes upon me. To look upon what had been the most precious thing to his son. And I wanted to share, all that I knew, all that had happened between Virgil and I, for him to understand, to accept. And, perhaps, forgive.
Morning after morning, I came to the small restaurant off main street. I sat in the same chair at the same table before the same window to the street, and waited. He was, in his professorial way, punctual, walking neither fast nor slow, head down as if in thought, newspaper tucked under his arm in the way one tucks an umbrella on a clear day. His overalls, unlike the others, were always clean, and at times, looked almost pressed and I wondered whether by his hand or hers. His thick silver hair was parted on the side, just as Virgil’s had been. He was clean shaven and his nose, in profile, was as the nose I had known and it wasn’t hard to imagine I was seeing the father as the son would have been, give or take fifty years.This is the world I constructed each and every day, as real to me as the snow to fall, so beautiful, so ephemeral, falling as hushes fall.
Those mornings were, I remember now, of life, fragrant of farm, of the day not yet warm, the light golden and the paper fresh of what was, of what could never be changed. I remember the creaky wooden floor, the smell of leather worn of foot, of coffee and eggs and white aprons. Voices too, of old men with humorless faces, of white cups and black coffee rising between words. I can still hear the sound of forks, knives and plates, talk of weather and crops, of local politics, all of it as serious as drought. And I still see those glassy eyes, fresh from a war paid with children’s blood, theirs, of son’s who would never work the land, buried in plots not known in lands never seen. They knew what I knew. The line stopped here. Nothing would be handed down. And for some of these old men, they would carry their name to granite and no further.
One morning, not too long after I had moved to town, he didn’t show. The coffee that morning seemed bitter, the atmosphere, insipid. Neither did he show the next day nor the day after and as I came to learn from the paper I’d never see him carry again, he’d see Virgil before I would. I’d like to think he’d introduce me and that together, they’d wait. I’d like to think that what happened next, they had a hand. I’d like to believe a lot of things, but to see the child Virgil never saw, to hold him as I never held his grandfather, to know that although the name was not the same, the blood would carry on--I’d like to believe that meant something. I’d like to believe I could be forgiven. I’d like to know, when my time comes, I’m going to a place with open arms. And that perhaps one day, what was torn apart by war, could be put back together.
__________
fifth draft:
He looked like Virgil, only older. Same roman nose, same shock of hair parted to the side, same clear blue eyes set upon a glove-leathered face. Each day I would watch him arrive for breakfast, walking as I knew his son to walk, as I imagined Virgil would have walked if he had lived. I wanted to approach, to introduce myself, talk. To tell him all that I knew of his son’s last days. I wanted a lot of things I suppose and what was right and what was wrong, to this day, I cannot say. War does this. It changes everything and nothing is ever as it was.
So each morning, I arrived early. The small town had but one restaurant on the north side of main and I would take my customary seat just inside the glass window to the street and wait. He was, in his professorial way, punctual, walking neither fast nor slow, head down as if in thought, newspaper tucked under his arm in the way one tucks an umbrella on a clear day. His overalls, unlike the others, were always clean, and at times, looked almost pressed. His thick silver hair was parted on the side, just as Virgil’s had been. He was clean shaven and his profile was as the profile I had known and it wasn’t hard to imagine I was seeing the father as the son would have been, give or take fifty years.
Those mornings were, I remember now, alive, fragrant of farm, of the day not yet warm, the light still golden and the paper fresh of what was, of what could never be changed. I remember the creaky wooden floor, the smell of leather, of coffee and eggs and white aprons. Voices too, of old men with humorless faces, of white cups and black coffee rising between words.
I can still hear the sound of forks, knives and plates, talk of weather and crops, of local politics, all of it as serious as drought. And I still see those glassy eyes, wet of a war paid with filial blood, from son’s who would never work the land, buried in plots not known, in lands never seen. They knew what I knew. The line stopped here. Nothing would be handed down. And for some of these old men, they would carry their name to granite and no further.
One morning, not too long after I had moved to town, he didn’t show. The coffee that morning seemed bitter, the atmosphere insipid. Neither did he show the next day, nor the day after, and as I came to learn from the paper I’d never see him carry again, he’d see his son before I would. I’d like to think Virgil would speak of me and that together, as Virgil had whispered to me on that cold field of France, they’d wait. I’d like to think that what happened next, they had a hand. I’d like to believe a lot of things, but to see the child Virgil never saw, never knew to be, to hold him now as I had never held his grandfather, to know that although the name was not the same, the blood would carry on--I’d like to believe that meant something. I’d like to believe I could be forgiven. I’d like to know, when my time comes, I’m going to a place with open arms. And that perhaps one day, what was torn apart by war, could be put back together.
But I couldn’t.
And yet, still, morning after morning, I came, watched. I soaked his every movement into my imaginary world and dreamed of a life never lived. I look back now, father resting as son somewhere in the green hills. Both gone, perhaps together, perhaps happy, perhaps looking, waiting, wanting, a meeting, that meeting of us, of family, of smiles and hugs and words whispered on lips of acceptance. How I would have loved that. Just that.
I still drink my coffee, black. I still think of those days of creaky wooden floors and worn leather soles. I feel like that, a soul weathered and worn, my eyes dimming, gloaming, days fading with memory. Then it happened. He came. My boy. And what was held, released. And what was imaginary, gone.
__________
second draft:
I would watch his father in the morning light, some seventy-years-old, face tanned, eyes blue as cloudless sky. I had wanted to approach him, to talk, to breath the air that he had breathed, to hold, but not so much as hold as to feel, yes, feel, the hand that had held what I had held. I wanted his eyes upon me. To look upon what had been the most precious thing to his son. And I wanted to share, all that I knew, all that had happened. But I couldn’t.
And yet, morning after morning, I came to the small restaurant off main street. I sat in the same chair at the same table before the same window to the street, waiting. He was, in his professorial way, punctual, walking neither fast nor slow, head down, newspaper tucked under his arm. His overalls, unlike the others, were always clean, and at times, looked almost pressed and I wondered whether by his hand or hers. His hair, coin silver, thick, was parted on the side, just as Virgil’s. He wore no facial hair and his nose, in profile, was as the nose I had known and it wasn’t hard to imagine I was seeing the father as the son would have been--this world I constructed, as real to me as the snow to fall, so beautiful, so ephemeral.
Those mornings, I remember now, of life, fragrant of farm, of the day not yet warm, the light golden and the paper fresh of what was. I remember the creaky wooden floor, the smell of leather worn, of coffee and eggs and white aprons. Voices too, of men, old men with humorless faces, of white cups and black coffee rising between words. I still hear the sound of plates, talk of weather and crops, of local politics, serious as drought. And I still see those glassy eyes, fresh from a war paid in children’s blood, of son’s who would never work the land, buried in plots not for them. They knew what I knew. The line stopped here. Nothing would be handed down. And for some, they would carry their name to granite and no further.
One morning, not too long after I had moved to Tennessee, he didn’t show up. The coffee that morning seemed bitter. He didn’t show the next either and as I came to learn from the paper I’d never see him carry again, he’d see Virgil before I would. I’d like to think he’d introduce me and that together, they’d wait. I’d like to think that what happened next, they had a hand.
__________
third draft:
I would watch Virgil’s father in the morning light, some seventy-years-old, face tanned, eyes cloudless sky blue. I had wanted to approach him, to talk, to breathe the air that he had breathed, to hold, but not so much as hold as to feel the hand that had held what I had held. I wanted his eyes upon me. To look upon what had been the most precious thing to his son. And I wanted to share, all that I knew, all that had happened between Virgil and I. For him to understand, to accept. And, perhaps, forgive.
Morning after morning, I came to the small restaurant off main street. I sat in the same chair at the same table before the same window to the street, and waited. He was, in his professorial way, punctual, walking neither fast nor slow, head down, newspaper tucked under his arm in the way one tucks an umbrella on a clear day. His overalls, unlike the others, were always clean, and at times, looked almost pressed and I wondered whether by his hand or hers. His silver hair, thick, was parted on the side, just as Virgil’s had been. He wore no facial hair and his nose, in profile, was as the nose I had known and it wasn’t hard to imagine I was seeing the father as the son would have been--this world I constructed, as real to me as falling snow, so beautiful, so ephemeral.
Those mornings, I remember now, of life, fragrant of farm, of the day not yet warm, the light golden and the paper fresh of what was. I remember the creaky wooden floor, the smell of leather worn, of coffee and eggs and white aprons. Voices too, of men, old men with humorless faces, of white cups and black coffee rising between words. I still hear the sound of plates, talk of weather and crops, of local politics, serious as drought. And I still see those glassy eyes, fresh from a war paid with children’s blood, of son’s who would never work the land, buried in plots not for them. They knew what I knew. The line stopped here. Nothing would be handed down. And for some, they would carry their name to granite and no further.
One morning, not too long after I had moved to Tennessee, he didn’t show up. The coffee that morning seemed bitter. Neither did he show the next and as I came to learn from the paper I’d never see him carry again, he’d see Virgil before I would. I’d like to think he’d introduce me and that together, they’d wait. I’d like to think that what happened next, they had a hand. I’d like to believe a lot of things, but to see the child Virgil never saw, to hold him as I never held his grandfather, to know that although the name was not the same, the blood would carry on--I’d like to believe that meant something. I’d like to believe I could be forgiven. I’d like to know, when my time comes, I’m going to a place with open arms. And that perhaps one day, what was torn apart by war, could be put back together.
__________
fourth draft:
Each morning, I watched him walk to breakfast in the soft morning light, some seventy-years-old, face tanned and set with eyes as cloudless sky blue as his son’s had been. I had wanted to approach him, to talk, to breathe the air that he had breathed, to hold the hand that had held what I had held. I wanted his eyes upon me. To look upon what had been the most precious thing to his son. And I wanted to share, all that I knew, all that had happened between Virgil and I, for him to understand, to accept. And, perhaps, forgive.
Morning after morning, I came to the small restaurant off main street. I sat in the same chair at the same table before the same window to the street, and waited. He was, in his professorial way, punctual, walking neither fast nor slow, head down as if in thought, newspaper tucked under his arm in the way one tucks an umbrella on a clear day. His overalls, unlike the others, were always clean, and at times, looked almost pressed and I wondered whether by his hand or hers. His thick silver hair was parted on the side, just as Virgil’s had been. He was clean shaven and his nose, in profile, was as the nose I had known and it wasn’t hard to imagine I was seeing the father as the son would have been, give or take fifty years.This is the world I constructed each and every day, as real to me as the snow to fall, so beautiful, so ephemeral, falling as hushes fall.
Those mornings were, I remember now, of life, fragrant of farm, of the day not yet warm, the light golden and the paper fresh of what was, of what could never be changed. I remember the creaky wooden floor, the smell of leather worn of foot, of coffee and eggs and white aprons. Voices too, of old men with humorless faces, of white cups and black coffee rising between words. I can still hear the sound of forks, knives and plates, talk of weather and crops, of local politics, all of it as serious as drought. And I still see those glassy eyes, fresh from a war paid with children’s blood, theirs, of son’s who would never work the land, buried in plots not known in lands never seen. They knew what I knew. The line stopped here. Nothing would be handed down. And for some of these old men, they would carry their name to granite and no further.
One morning, not too long after I had moved to town, he didn’t show. The coffee that morning seemed bitter, the atmosphere, insipid. Neither did he show the next day nor the day after and as I came to learn from the paper I’d never see him carry again, he’d see Virgil before I would. I’d like to think he’d introduce me and that together, they’d wait. I’d like to think that what happened next, they had a hand. I’d like to believe a lot of things, but to see the child Virgil never saw, to hold him as I never held his grandfather, to know that although the name was not the same, the blood would carry on--I’d like to believe that meant something. I’d like to believe I could be forgiven. I’d like to know, when my time comes, I’m going to a place with open arms. And that perhaps one day, what was torn apart by war, could be put back together.
__________
fifth draft:
He looked like Virgil, only older. Same roman nose, same shock of hair parted to the side, same clear blue eyes set upon a glove-leathered face. Each day I would watch him arrive for breakfast, walking as I knew his son to walk, as I imagined Virgil would have walked if he had lived. I wanted to approach, to introduce myself, talk. To tell him all that I knew of his son’s last days. I wanted a lot of things I suppose and what was right and what was wrong, to this day, I cannot say. War does this. It changes everything and nothing is ever as it was.
So each morning, I arrived early. The small town had but one restaurant on the north side of main and I would take my customary seat just inside the glass window to the street and wait. He was, in his professorial way, punctual, walking neither fast nor slow, head down as if in thought, newspaper tucked under his arm in the way one tucks an umbrella on a clear day. His overalls, unlike the others, were always clean, and at times, looked almost pressed. His thick silver hair was parted on the side, just as Virgil’s had been. He was clean shaven and his profile was as the profile I had known and it wasn’t hard to imagine I was seeing the father as the son would have been, give or take fifty years.
Those mornings were, I remember now, alive, fragrant of farm, of the day not yet warm, the light still golden and the paper fresh of what was, of what could never be changed. I remember the creaky wooden floor, the smell of leather, of coffee and eggs and white aprons. Voices too, of old men with humorless faces, of white cups and black coffee rising between words.
I can still hear the sound of forks, knives and plates, talk of weather and crops, of local politics, all of it as serious as drought. And I still see those glassy eyes, wet of a war paid with filial blood, from son’s who would never work the land, buried in plots not known, in lands never seen. They knew what I knew. The line stopped here. Nothing would be handed down. And for some of these old men, they would carry their name to granite and no further.
One morning, not too long after I had moved to town, he didn’t show. The coffee that morning seemed bitter, the atmosphere insipid. Neither did he show the next day, nor the day after, and as I came to learn from the paper I’d never see him carry again, he’d see his son before I would. I’d like to think Virgil would speak of me and that together, as Virgil had whispered to me on that cold field of France, they’d wait. I’d like to think that what happened next, they had a hand. I’d like to believe a lot of things, but to see the child Virgil never saw, never knew to be, to hold him now as I had never held his grandfather, to know that although the name was not the same, the blood would carry on--I’d like to believe that meant something. I’d like to believe I could be forgiven. I’d like to know, when my time comes, I’m going to a place with open arms. And that perhaps one day, what was torn apart by war, could be put back together.
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