Navy Issue Colt 45 Pistol

When I was trained to use a gun in the Navy, the drill instructor said.
"The only purpose a gun has is to kill.
Never pull it out of your holster unless you intend to kill.
It is not to be used to threaten, or wound.
It is only to be used for killing."

I carried one of these Colt 45 pistols everyday when I was in the Navy in Viet Nam.
I knew its lethal purpose.

I Can't Get Over It

There is one thing that annoys me 

way down deep inside. 

That is when I hear the words, 

“You need to get over it.” 

How can I get over our dead son? 

There is nothing I can do to bring him back to life. There is no way I can undo his death. My son’s body is gone. We spread his ashes in the ocean. There is no getting over it. 

People who are not in grief, 

who do not have dead children, 

need to understand 

parents grieve for their dead children 

FOREVER.

And forever is a very long time. 

When you see me cry, don’t say to me, “It’s been 25 years since your son died. You need to get over it.” Saying that is cruel. Grief sucks! It hurts. Grief can sneak up and take a burning bite out of my heart without provocation, without warning. I have no control over when or how it shows up.

October is the cruelest month of the year. That is the month in which our son died. That is when grief parks his car in front of our house for a whole month, sometimes longer. I never know when he is going to get out of his car, knock me down and whisper in my ear, “Your son is dead.” But I know that he will and he’ll do it often. The bastard is doing it to me right now as I write this. He is also reminding me that October is only two weeks away.  Grief is mean. Death sucks!

Don’t be cruel by telling me 

I’ve been grieving too long. 

My son’s death has been too long. 

The day he died was the longest day 

of my life. 

His absence is too long, 

not my missing him, 

not my grief. 

When you see me cry, cry with me. When you see me turn down my “happy” glow, sit with me quietly in my darkness. But please don’t tell me to get over it. I can’t.

Twirling, Slowly Descending White Flares

     Yesterday, just before dark, a cute little four year old girl played in our cul de sac with her dad. They played with a toy that she shot into the air with a large rubber band. It twirled slowly to the ground. As darkness chased away the dusk, the little girl shot her toy into the air and watched it twirl its way slowly back down to the ground.

    While her dad and I chatted, she picked up her toy and shot it into the air again.

     “Look! Daddy! It’s shining.”

     I turned to look, but missed whatever was shining. She picked her toy off the ground and shot it up again. Her dad and I both looked up and watched it descend.

     The twirling toy lit up the area beneath us and sent me back in time to the shores of Viet Nam. For a micro-eternity I was watching the white flares illuminate the jungle to expose the Vietcong. 

     I stopped breathing. Tears flowed. Memories of the choppers, flying back and forth, shooting their machine guns at the exposed enemy fighters, came rushing back. The tracer bullets looked like futuristic death rays coming out of the choppers. I worried that the tracers made it easy for the Vietcong to see where the choppers were. 

     My stomach vibrated to the rhythm of the sound of the choppers, even though the sound was only in my memory. But my body, for that micro-eternity, could not tell whether I was in Long Beach in 2017 or in Viet Nam in 1972.

     Damn PTSD.   

A Dollar, Proudly Framed

A dollar.

Only one dollar.

Special because it's first.

First to pay.

First one earned.

Now displayed,

Proudly framed.

Russian letters.

Russian Owners?

Did that dollar

Buy a cup

of Vietnamese coffee?

In Nha Trang?

In Viet Nam?

Return To Viet Nam 44 Years Later

You Needn't See

The Vietnamese woman who comforted me in my dreams and meditations during the Viet Nam war stood on the cruise ship’s veranda deck with her hands across her chest. The green ocean lifted us up and down with its 12 foot swells as the ship sailed northward along the Viet Nam coast. The salty ocean breeze fluttered the bottom of her green ao dai. She closed her eyes and bowed her head slightly. Her conical straw hat glimmered even though the clouds hid the sun.

"I want to see the coastline," I said. “The clouds and mist are hiding it.”

"The coastline will not serve you," she said. "You came back to heal your war wounds. The coastline was beautiful then as it is now. Looking for old wounds won't serve you. You needn't see."

The green ocean swells waved with their white gloved hands, "Welcome back," they said.

I still wished I could see the coastline mountains and beaches. A light breeze continued to play with the Vietnamese woman’s ao dai as she walked over to me. She stood next to me and laid her head on my shoulder.

"I wish I could see it too,” she said, “but I know the jungle, the beaches, and the mountains are still there. They are still beautiful. Trust me," she said. "You have your memories. They will sooth you."

***

The city of Hoi An bubbled with bustling buskers, vendors and tourists. Motorcycles zoomed to and fro around pedestrians, cars, buses and bikes. The aromas of cooked fish, curry, cigarette smoke and motorcycle exhaust swirled around me. Tourists clicked away with their cameras and cell phones. Vendors hawked their wares, inviting me to come and take a closer look. Hoi An's yellow buildings buzzed vibrantly with activity. Dogs played with each other on the sidewalk. Two dogs wore shirts that my camera captured. Happiness placed her head on my chest as I stood on the sidewalk taking it all in.

The Vietnamese lady, dressed in her green ao dai and conical straw hat, stood behind Denise in the coffee shop, smiling, her eyes closed. She sipped her own cup of iced Vietnamese coffee. She opened her eyes and winked at me. She tilted her head toward the coffee shop staff who were wearing their jazzy straw hats. "Aren't they beautiful," she said.

"Yes, they are,” I replied, “and that makes me happy."