He's come home
Don't tell me, he's come home.
Do not declare, while in my presence, you must be so relieved now that he's home safe and sound.
I know he pulled into the driveway in his 89' Brougham Cadillac on February 8th 2013,
don't tell me I don't know, because I am his mother
and I remember
in 1989 Johnny was three years old, lining up toy cars in perfect row after row.
Period.
Exclamation mark!
I know he's come home.
I tell you, I saw him come to a halt in his 1989 Brougham Cadillac,
and I could see he was the sole keeper of bulging sea bags, and desert utilities,
dress blues and contraband he reclaimed from sergeants living off base.
Proprietor of all 5 years crammed into the backseat,
I know because I still remember full scale battles were fought (with sound effects)
on multi-leveled terrains across the carpet, over shelves, dressers and twin beds.
I still hear spontaneous stratagems barked to little green Lieutenants and Generals,
as battles were won with ease
and then Johnny would come out of his room,
hug me at war's end. Period. Exclamation mark!
Johnny came home,
and those sea bags were propped up in the corner of his room
four, five, six months, eight months and they are still at ease in the same corner.
Johnny came home.
I recognized him when he entered my bedroom ... I thought you might want these ...
and he folded my hand over a patch stained with Afghanistan
and a dog tag he had kept in his boot, just in case all that was found was a foot (I assume).
And I know my son remembers me. It’s because I understood why he remained so calm
that night I called to tell him George had put a gun to his head.
I am certain that’s why he remembers me.
Marching to a repetitive buzz, buzz, buzz … Johnny came home.
I told you, I know he came home,
because I examined my son, cover to shine of shoe, as he gave a heavy deliberate salute,
saw him depart with precision on his heals ... leaving the flag embosomed in a mother's misery.
I saw him step in time to the buzz, buzz, buzz … buzz, buzz, buzz.
... make it home for your mother... George had told Johnny.
Johnny’s not doing so good … George had told his mother and his mother told me.
But, there it is! The Cadi is parked in front of the house. Proof. Period. Exclamation mark!
... but I am searching
for the freckles across the bridge of his nose and ruddy cheeks.
I was ... I am deviously digging in between every word left unsaid,
sifting through cigarette butts smashed on the heal of his boots,
flicked into the air and dropping dead on the driveway
for a shred of DNA, a reason to believe he's come home.
And, alone in my back yard, I look up and swear at George ... you came home to your mother,
you son of a bitch, you came home!
Johnny, come home.
Rewind.
Return.
Period.
Exclamation mark!
© Jeanne René Watson 2013
… damned basket
Last flight into Mineta
Tuesday and ten days to be my son,
airport to front porch is full of talk, small and roundabout
Johnny’s chain smoking,
still he won’t smoke inside even though I don’t care.
I don’t care.
He stands, he never sits Wednesday, Thursday, Friday…
I listen to him speak, enunciate “she” in staccato
shh-e wore robes, carried a basket
punctuated rumors purging upward,
too late, bled out, too late, bled out,
too late, bled out
expelled outward through dust and
desert swallowed,
sands
he says
that gorge on simple
sensibilities.
Now he spits fragments, grit, extended vowels and elongated syllables
over cracked lips. Resonations fall,
we could do nothing, we could do nothing
vibrate
piling round his boots…
I think he wants me to stoop,
lift his words, gather them together into reason,
some underlying principle,
or maybe,
maybe just kick each word under the couch …
I don’t know
I can’t be sure Saturday,
Sunday, Monday
because
sh-e begged, sh-e begged
I understand this is just a
token, one token only,
a new vantage point from which to look upon the boy,
the boy I raised on matchbox cars and macaroni and cheese Tuesday, Wednesday …
He says no more of her or anything else that doesn’t engage a laugh.
He rubs his hands together palm to palm, smells them often.
Thursday Johnny will leave with a smile.
But shh-e … she
he knows he will leave her
with me
staggering, collapsing into my daydreams,
and always clutching that damned basket
© Jeanne René Watson 6.1.2010
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