wonatthewire1
05-29-2005, 09:57 PM
There was a guy in town whose son left to Viet Nam and never made it back alive.
His Chevelle sat in the driveway untouched, driven the weekend before he left as a graduation present.
It. Sat. There. For. Decades.
Good old boys would ask to buy the hot rod and fix it up, wash it and get the leaves out of the hood's eaves and air up the near rotted through tires.
Still sitting on its Ohio radials, dust caked and rusting, a spiderweb spun window on one side.
Even the obligatory used car dealer would stop by from time to time. Or air jocks would inquire, wanting their chance to soup up the Chevy and cruise it for an honest offer.
That father would cuss them and tell them to get off his property. That car was something no one could ever have, like the good life his son lost in service and could never share with others. He only made people leave, but the way he said so let you know why he did, if you knew the rest of the story.
I remember going for a walk after 9-11 and passing that place. The car was gone, the old man was as well. It's hard to let go of some things, and so you hold on desperately knowing that it will not change an events' outcome.
Realizing that others rendered void prices paid already. I hope the old man wasn't of sound mind to grasp the full impact of these final years. He probably was though, he kept the sharp faculties of the best and brightest his boy embodied alive in his world the only way he could, by holding the dream he had near.
Every day was his Memorial Day. He couldn't see a picture in his house, pass by his namesake's room or walk the driveway without reminders of his all American boy.
I always had a sort of penance or prayer as a passed his place, never disturbed his world. The hallowed rustle of leaves from under that auto for most of the year or its frozen poze or the hot dusty rusted choked watch that car kept sentry station for. Awaiting a return that would never come as seasons passed.
I think about that when I think about this war. A new generation knows this kind of quiet. Something beyond words that can be said between blood even, a chasm.
Where were they when they died? Their last thoughts, words, actions? Did they think of me? Did they say my name? No answers to await, and still you wait.
No one should be asked to do that. Thousands face this silence today. They'll never get those answers in the same way.
The leadership should answer all questions before we send them. It is their obligation. Because unless we have answers entrusted in full ahead of departure, those who endure loss will wait for the answers in kind that can never come.
His Chevelle sat in the driveway untouched, driven the weekend before he left as a graduation present.
It. Sat. There. For. Decades.
Good old boys would ask to buy the hot rod and fix it up, wash it and get the leaves out of the hood's eaves and air up the near rotted through tires.
Still sitting on its Ohio radials, dust caked and rusting, a spiderweb spun window on one side.
Even the obligatory used car dealer would stop by from time to time. Or air jocks would inquire, wanting their chance to soup up the Chevy and cruise it for an honest offer.
That father would cuss them and tell them to get off his property. That car was something no one could ever have, like the good life his son lost in service and could never share with others. He only made people leave, but the way he said so let you know why he did, if you knew the rest of the story.
I remember going for a walk after 9-11 and passing that place. The car was gone, the old man was as well. It's hard to let go of some things, and so you hold on desperately knowing that it will not change an events' outcome.
Realizing that others rendered void prices paid already. I hope the old man wasn't of sound mind to grasp the full impact of these final years. He probably was though, he kept the sharp faculties of the best and brightest his boy embodied alive in his world the only way he could, by holding the dream he had near.
Every day was his Memorial Day. He couldn't see a picture in his house, pass by his namesake's room or walk the driveway without reminders of his all American boy.
I always had a sort of penance or prayer as a passed his place, never disturbed his world. The hallowed rustle of leaves from under that auto for most of the year or its frozen poze or the hot dusty rusted choked watch that car kept sentry station for. Awaiting a return that would never come as seasons passed.
I think about that when I think about this war. A new generation knows this kind of quiet. Something beyond words that can be said between blood even, a chasm.
Where were they when they died? Their last thoughts, words, actions? Did they think of me? Did they say my name? No answers to await, and still you wait.
No one should be asked to do that. Thousands face this silence today. They'll never get those answers in the same way.
The leadership should answer all questions before we send them. It is their obligation. Because unless we have answers entrusted in full ahead of departure, those who endure loss will wait for the answers in kind that can never come.