seemed like a thousand fireflies behind my eyelids. My heart
was still palpitating, and as I turned to walk away from the stairs
toward my room, I looked back one last time to check for the
hunter. But all I saw was my shadow waning as I turned the unlit
corner toward my bedroom.
As I fell on my bed more tears seemed to fall
with me. I was helpless. I’ll never see Maria again , I
thought. I would die that night, I just knew it. There is
nothing, I thought. Nothing . No God, no hope . No fate, no destiny . I was alone in the world. Had I been in
a crowded room, I would’ve felt like Robinson Crusoe. I couldn’t
face challenges. I couldn’t win. I couldn’t kill the hunter, he
would always be chasing me. I was strengthless .
I lay prone on my back for a while, looking
at this poster above my desk—the same one I’m looking at now,
although back then I didn’t know what it portrayed—of a plane
flying through thick clouds high above what looked like a city.
Below it was a caption that read: V-J Day! Dad, you gave it
to me on Victory in Japan day a few years ago, because you knew how
much I liked aircraft and how fascinated I was by World War II.
Right next to the poster was a black and white photograph of you
holding your combat helmet under your arm in Vietnam, standing at
the nose of a B-52. What a cool fucking picture.
You said it was taken right after your last
mission, right before you left for Hawaii, and then back to New
York. You looked so proud, so strong, so dignified. You looked like
a man who could jump the highest hurdles. And you did. You hated
the war but ran your mission while there. You never complained or
even cursed about it. You did what you were asked to do by an
unforgiving country, a deceptive President, and an arrogant
commanding officer. And you persisted with your mission once he got
home. Only weeks after your plane landed in New York, you married
mommy and bought a brick colonial in Queens.
You wanted to leave Queens but mommy wanted
to stay. So you drove to Newark every day and put in forty hours a
week, not counting the commute. You never once bitched or moaned.
You did your duty for family just as you had for your country. You
worked silently, day-in and day-out, without recognition, like a
gymnast who trains endlessly for the Olympics and doesn’t even win
a bronze, but trains even harder right afterward.
Hey Mom and Dad, I often wonder if you guys
really went through the same stuff as me when you were my age. You
may think so, but I say probably not. Hell, I don’t even know what
you guys saw in each other when you met. These days, no two totally
different people would ever fall in love like you did. When thunder
marries lightening all you get is a storm.
Occasionally, I blow the dust off of your
old, musty high school yearbooks in the attic and stare at your
pictures. Mom, you beamed like Megan Tyler Moore. And Dad, you
glared defiantly like James Dean. You guys actually look normal and
attractive.
But, Mom—and this is where I get so fucking
confused—you must have been a mental case back then, too! That’s an
awful thing to write, I know. But it must’ve been true. As far back
as I can remember, you were always a little crazy. You never beat
us, and you bought us everything we wanted, but you just couldn’t
control your mouth.
You were never like all the mothers I saw on
TV. On all the other shows the moms were the same—pleasant and
gentle and caring. But you were never like those moms. I’ve always
been pissed at you for that. I mean, there was dad who had fought
in the war, and he was really cool and collected. Even when me and
Tracy were bad, dad always understood and never went crazy. But
you, Mom—holy shit! If you couldn’t control yourself, why did you
bother to have children in the first place?
I admit that I forgave you, Dad, for your
mistakes very early in life. Any other woman for a wife and you
never would’ve
was still palpitating, and as I turned to walk away from the stairs
toward my room, I looked back one last time to check for the
hunter. But all I saw was my shadow waning as I turned the unlit
corner toward my bedroom.
As I fell on my bed more tears seemed to fall
with me. I was helpless. I’ll never see Maria again , I
thought. I would die that night, I just knew it. There is
nothing, I thought. Nothing . No God, no hope . No fate, no destiny . I was alone in the world. Had I been in
a crowded room, I would’ve felt like Robinson Crusoe. I couldn’t
face challenges. I couldn’t win. I couldn’t kill the hunter, he
would always be chasing me. I was strengthless .
I lay prone on my back for a while, looking
at this poster above my desk—the same one I’m looking at now,
although back then I didn’t know what it portrayed—of a plane
flying through thick clouds high above what looked like a city.
Below it was a caption that read: V-J Day! Dad, you gave it
to me on Victory in Japan day a few years ago, because you knew how
much I liked aircraft and how fascinated I was by World War II.
Right next to the poster was a black and white photograph of you
holding your combat helmet under your arm in Vietnam, standing at
the nose of a B-52. What a cool fucking picture.
You said it was taken right after your last
mission, right before you left for Hawaii, and then back to New
York. You looked so proud, so strong, so dignified. You looked like
a man who could jump the highest hurdles. And you did. You hated
the war but ran your mission while there. You never complained or
even cursed about it. You did what you were asked to do by an
unforgiving country, a deceptive President, and an arrogant
commanding officer. And you persisted with your mission once he got
home. Only weeks after your plane landed in New York, you married
mommy and bought a brick colonial in Queens.
You wanted to leave Queens but mommy wanted
to stay. So you drove to Newark every day and put in forty hours a
week, not counting the commute. You never once bitched or moaned.
You did your duty for family just as you had for your country. You
worked silently, day-in and day-out, without recognition, like a
gymnast who trains endlessly for the Olympics and doesn’t even win
a bronze, but trains even harder right afterward.
Hey Mom and Dad, I often wonder if you guys
really went through the same stuff as me when you were my age. You
may think so, but I say probably not. Hell, I don’t even know what
you guys saw in each other when you met. These days, no two totally
different people would ever fall in love like you did. When thunder
marries lightening all you get is a storm.
Occasionally, I blow the dust off of your
old, musty high school yearbooks in the attic and stare at your
pictures. Mom, you beamed like Megan Tyler Moore. And Dad, you
glared defiantly like James Dean. You guys actually look normal and
attractive.
But, Mom—and this is where I get so fucking
confused—you must have been a mental case back then, too! That’s an
awful thing to write, I know. But it must’ve been true. As far back
as I can remember, you were always a little crazy. You never beat
us, and you bought us everything we wanted, but you just couldn’t
control your mouth.
You were never like all the mothers I saw on
TV. On all the other shows the moms were the same—pleasant and
gentle and caring. But you were never like those moms. I’ve always
been pissed at you for that. I mean, there was dad who had fought
in the war, and he was really cool and collected. Even when me and
Tracy were bad, dad always understood and never went crazy. But
you, Mom—holy shit! If you couldn’t control yourself, why did you
bother to have children in the first place?
I admit that I forgave you, Dad, for your
mistakes very early in life. Any other woman for a wife and you
never would’ve
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