He knew how to read the weather,
the synoptic, the radar
strong winds, showers
the rain was coming.
He knew a lot of things,
collecting wisdom like knick-knacks
neatly arranged, shared freely
with no little pleasure.
I imagine him today,
Wedgewood-blue eyes
clouded by cataracts
giving me breathing tips
health tips, stats and anecdotes
dispensed from the pharmacy
of his memory while on horseback.
Now I’m his memory,
carrying a photo
those close-cropped war shots
in sepia, neat, young, a gun slung
on his shoulder.
PTSD didn’t have a name yet,
so he pretended it didn’t exist
built a house, started a business
in safe suburbia
all that death held in check
in secret parcels left behind
as code, no one could link
to his fake name
Fort Benning, Iceland, France
until it came out in rage
broken pots, broken plates
a few bruises maybe
who knows, everything heals
after enough time.