Looking at a picture . . . and seeing the past . . . |
The photograph is old and tattered,
Worn from frequent handling, faded, With salty spots of water and ancient dust Slowly gathered by the passage of time. Terribly young and vulnerable, The soldiers are tall and handsome. They smile, squinting solemnly into the lens, Silently holding their rifles and their fear. The multi-colored uniforms in shades of brown Distort and hide the shapes of their bodies, As they are meant to do, to protect them From the death that waits in the jungle. Behind them, the massive bulk of the aircraft Vibrates quietly, quivering and waiting. It waits To receive its cargo, to receive the men and The parachutes it will drop into the jungle. The men are young and, with their hair Extending below their collars and their eyes Quizzical and dark, they stand on the edge Of the abyss and gaze into the darkness. Today, in silence, I move my fingers softly Across the picture and quietly wonder Where, like butterflies or descending eagles, Did they come to earth and what waited there for them? What did they see? What did they do? Alone, still curious? Alive for the moment, But looking into that fearful darkness? Where did they die in that distant jungle? Sighing, I return the photograph to its place In the album, back under the four black tabs That hold it. Reluctantly, I close the album cover Over my father's still-questioning face. When he stood before that airplane, I still slept safely in my mother's body. When I was born into the brightness of life, He had already moved into silence and darkness. |