The Homecoming

When you were in Vietnam

we got your letters, two or three at once

and then the whole house buzzed like a nest

of honey drunk bees as we poured over

your every word.

We kids imagined you, strong, tough,

blazing with righteous American fury

cutting down those dirty commies,

but Mom and Dad

read each letter more slowly

glancing at each other

with darker looks.

Then one day we got the recording you made,

tiny plastic reels, shiny brown tape wound

in fragile loops; your voice!

just like you were in the room, speaking

re-assuring, everyday chat about R&R

and shopping in Bangkok. Finally,

the tape nearly spent, you said that

you were coming home soon.

And one bright July morning

you came home! Your hat was rakishly tilted,

a Lucky cigarette carelessly drooping

from the corner of your grinning mouth,

all paratrooper swagger, gold braid running

through your buttoned shoulder loops,

colored ribbons and medals all over your chest.

As you walked through the door

I stood aside, awestruck, shy.

You sat like a visitor in your own home

and we opened the packages you brought for us,

Christmas in July, as one by one we held

our Asian wonders, and watched

as Mom held your hand and

Dad searched your eyes.

But you were tired, so upstairs in my room

you took a midday nap, and when Mom told me

to wake you up for supper, I nudged your shoulder

and you bolted,

breathless,

down the steps,

into the quiet street

and stood at tense attention,

(the neighbors all gawking),

as you waved your M-16

made of air

and memory,

and waited

for the morters

to fall

and kill us all.

Then the light returned to your eyes.

Slowly you walked back to the house

and gently took me by my shoulders

and told me to never,

never

touch you when you were asleep,

and I never asked you why.

(11/11/2010)