The Memory

The Memory

I had no feelings about the war, I don’t think, until he died. Before that It was just another thing happening on the world of television. Mom and Dad’s thing really.
I knew he was there and I thought it was interesting that he, who didn’t take to the sun very well (red-head you know) was in this scorching hot jungle.

I began to notice the guns and the blood as I watched the never-ending trail of newscasts but never directly saw him as part of it.. Not until later.

Later, when he came home for the last time, in a box, with letters and commendations and stories written from other soldiers to my parents telling us what happened and what he did.

I do know that that last time I saw him he was getting on the plane at the airport – he was going home to Virginia where he would catch a transport to Viet Nam for his second tour, and as he walked across the tarmac he turned around and looked at us real serious like and I knew then that he would not be coming back to us.. I think my mom knew too and my dad. We all sensed it then. He wouldn’t get to be one of us.

Later – many years later, some of us talked about this day and we all agreed that we just knew it was coming. He survived for two weeks. Just two weeks. They say the bullet hit him in the neck and killed him instantly and that he apparently saved some of his buddies. He got a bronze star for bravery and some purple hearts and other stuff. But I just didn’t care about all that. It was (and is) meaningless to me. My good friend’s Dad had died over there and they were told all those same things. I wonder now if it was just a way to make people feel better – some last reprieve from pain – “he didn’t really suffer you know” “he did such a brave thing” blah blah blah.

My memories of him are foggy. I don’t know what is a real memory and what is just some story I’ve been told so many times that I own it as my truth. I do remember his smell – he had stinky feet. He also wore a certain aftershave that to this day can cause a thought of him to whisk by though it’s been almost 40 years. I remember his height, maybe because I was small, just a little child and he was an adult he seemed so tall, I think he was just a little over 6 feet. He had lots of freckles and really very pretty red hair. He liked to drink beer and I remember him standing in the yard with a half case.

I remember the first time, when he got back from his first tour, he just wanted to laugh, nothing serious, didn’t want to talk about it. I tried to share with him some things I’d learned in social studies – about monsoons and how southeast asia really thrived because of this, that without them the crops wouldn’t grow and the people would starve. He just smiled and shook his head and said “they wouldn’t write that stuff if they had to live in it for a while” then he wanted to move on to something else – ping pong – he wanted to play ping pong. I think he actually preferred to play with Dad or one of the boys but he didn’t really complain about playing with me. . He also liked to go fishing – a huge passion in our family. I remember once when he went to the beach to cast for some snapper, he stayed way to long and came back looking like a freckled red-headed lobster.

He was fairly simple, uncomplicated – at least that’s what I think, the impression he left me with. I only got to know him for those first 13 years of my life. I know the mind is tricky muddy waters and can play funny little games and all this could be just the stories and pictures that I’ve created and stored in my head, but it is what I’m left with.

Dad always appreciated brains, intellect, drive, etc. I know he liked us all well enough, but with so many kids I don’t think he really appreciated my brother and his simplicity very much, at least not until he put on his hero boots and wore his hero uniform and carried a gun, and died. Maybe that’s not fair of me but it’s how I remember things.

I on the other hand didn’t need or even want him to be a hero. Well maybe a hero in the way big brothers are and have always been to little sisters. I wanted him to be someone I would know for a long time, a comfortable permanence. Someone to go on vacation with and eventually have a beer with or go out on the town. Someone who would give me nieces and nephews and tease me and call me long distance and show up at my door.

I know that I have plenty of big brothers (and sisters) but he deserved to have us too. It’s in the knowing and the loving of all these many adult siblings that my loss of him has become sharper and harder. Not really like any other loss I’ve had. Not even Dad.

There is no going back and there is no fixing it. He was a young man, 23 years old and he hadn’t lived much of his life yet. He should have had babies. He should have had a girl friend, some nice woman to make his heart beat fast and to love and get angry with and sit down and drink his coffee with in the morning.

So please don’t tell me about that war and don’t try to convince me of it’s value. I don’t want to hear about sacrifice, security or courage. I don’t care about those things – they are for me just words to a 13 year old girl, hollow words.

What I care about is my family and loving them and having them to go through this life with. He should have had us and we should have had him and there’s no excuse for him not still being here. It’s life I know, but it’s still wrong.