During my childhood, stories were often told about my grandfather
He was young when he went to war, flying fighter planes
Many missions he flew, dropping bombs, maneuvering a massive metal machine while missiles went flying like fire thundering in a storm—sullen skies floaded with heaving, clamorous tumults of war
A miracle he survived—Distinguished Flying Cross, resounding in truth
Hero sung and honored—exemplified and glorified
Yet, untold stories remained locked in soul
Nightmares and terror, presuming to haunt many dreams, ensnared night’s slumber
Sleep was lonely in dreams still living in battlefields of sky
By and by, a mission’s deep horror echos through bones and reverberating memories
No talk of war stories uttered, only a quick snap shot—a glance of a bygone time and scattered photos
Betimes, a stutter happened, followed by tears burning hot as fevered skin
Protrusions of sweltering sweat formed as anxious, trembling hands feared depth of scattered photos pushed far back—as far back as memories could go
He does not want to remember
It’s fine, because we don’t need to know details—we are proud not knowing
We are proud of his sacrifice, even if we cannot fully comprehend with what magnitude his heart prolonged near a lifeless hope
(Ironically, soon after flying missions in two wars, my grandfather passed away in a car accident. I know him only through stories and pictures.)
Stories introduced me to my heroic, kind, funny, and talented grandfather I never knew
In memory of T. Earl Jr.