Teachers
They were professors, my parents.
Both of them.
Oh, they'd sowed their oats,
He in New York,
She - well, we're not sure
We think South America
Because of all her carvings
And because she'd never speak of it.
So they settled in a small college town
And brought me home to it
The baby who made every faculty party
And was oohed, ahhed, held, and bounced
To everyones satisfaction
But I was born six weeks after our yellow bretheren
Decided, in the words of their commander,
To waken a sleeping giant
Every man Jack was needed
Give up what you had
And come hold whats ours
Ans so they made a warrior of a musician
And a Navy Wife of a Chaucer expert.
I was just along for the ride.
They used him first
Then trained him again
And sent him out over the vast Pacific
I remember when he left
I remember better when he came back
He wasnt the same person
They tried to be teachers again
They truly tried
But after you've rained hell on our enemies
And sent men out to die
Vaporous coeds and hung over frat boys
No longer mattered
Years of not knowing whether he was alive
Left her uncaring of words dead five hundred years
And so he took a different path
And she went with him, arm in arm,
And I - I toddled after them
The other path
Indeed
Made all the difference
3 comments:
Oh, this is so sad... and so complex. It's the best of flash fiction because you stir up so much in such a short span.
Deep. A great story - sad and poignant.
This reminds me of my Poppa, always quiet never talked much and all we were ever told was the war had changed him, he'd come back a different man. That I could see.
Post a Comment