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.