Every so often... it happens... they... the words... disappear. Not selective, not mute. Just gone, the words are gone, they don't plan to return. You can slow, you can search... but that doesn't mean they appear.

Go ahead, reach out, search for your sound. The color that escaped from your lungs, that were shaped through your lips and pressed with the tongue. Find them, if you can. Fail, because you can't.

Though English, Spanish, French, Hindi, the tongue continues to form shapes, the lips press words through their funnel, the lungs shoot air up the throat to begin the vibrations. Everything functions.

Except that it doesn't.

Silence roars out, defining in their lack of presence. Distracting, drawing attention, but not the type you're looking for. There is pity. Your lips are imposters. They move in a mimic of words that have given up, that no longer wish to leave the depths of your chest and vibrate through the free air.

Pen and paper, your last resort. But there is a lack of patience, no one wants to wait for the words to escape onto the page and travel through the light into their eyes.

The words are still lost in your throat, in your lungs, in the blood flowing through your veins and into the neurons of your brain.

The electricity doesn't make its way into your mouth, instead it stays in your brain, sending flashes of heat through your spine and into your body as irritation spikes and frustration grows.

Still no sound manages a whisper across your lips.

On the Feast of the First Morning of the First Day, in the Year of the Monkey, 1968, North Vietnam’s wildcat soldiers—many dressed in pale shirts with pleated pockets, button-downed trousers, and wearing sun-helmets or jungle hats—attacked South Vietnam.

Bullets and tracers cracked the silent sky; grenades and mortar fire shook the earth.

Thousands of Americans in hundreds of cities, towns, and villages, faced ever-growing waves of gritty soldiers trying to provoke citizens in the south into overthrowing their own government and siding with Ho Chi Minh and his Communist regime.

It did not happen.

What did happen, however, was a bloody mess: More than 40,000 Viet Cong died, along with 7,000-plus Americans.

I was not in-country during that brutal battle, known as the Tet Offensive. I showed up later.

In 1971, I was given guard duty at the end of a runway at Da Nang Airbase—a runway that had been overrun during Tet.

Spooky.

The night-watch lasted four hours. It was deadly dark. Menacing. On the edge of the jungle—a stone’s throw from hell.

I was alone.

It crossed my mind that somebody was out there. Watching me. From the other side. (Of course they were. Why wouldn’t they be? They were doing their job—like I was doing mine.)

Nighttime creeps me out. Haunts me. Especially that night. Gloomy thoughts conjured up layers of fear, anxiety, and dread. I didn’t need that. Not one bit.

I was wearing a helmet and flack jacket along with my uniform-of-the-day. My weapon: an M1911, Automatic Colt Pistol. The barrel was rusty; sand had found its way into the detachable magazine.

Nobody ever taught me how to shoot a 45—let alone dismantle and clean it. Didn’t really matter. I was told not to load my pistol unless ordered to do so. And, if so ordered, not to shoot unless given an official OK. Good thing, too, because (given the rust and sand) the dang gun would have exploded in my face.

About two hours into the watch, I got paranoid—trees became stalking solders; shifting ground-grass transformed into a dangerous threat. My breathing sounded like labored gasps from a faulty fireplace-bellows; my heartbeats reverberated like hollow thumps rumbling through a defective drum.

At some point I put my hands in my pocket and was surprised to find the harmonica I’d used the night before to play for drinks at the on-base saloon. Of course I wouldn’t play the harmonica out here. Not on watch. For one thing, the sound would call attention to me; for another, the shiny metallic top and bottom plates would make a great target for sharp-shooters.

Playing would be a suicide move.

Eventually, boredom, fear, and dread teamed up to form a strange euphoric alliance. Pragmatic. Morbid. Sinisterly re-assuring. I took out my harmonica and played a sultry blues riff. Panic melted away. Terror took a trip. Apprehension dissipated into wistful puffs, like ghostly smoke leaving a dying fire.

Better target for a sniper? Sure. But I figured I’d rather take a kill-shot than suffer a shattered arm or leg.

Silence sauntered away that night. Quiet as a bug. Far away from my one-man parade—drifting through a stream of blue notes and caressed by a soft, summer breeze.

My Love is here

I walk along the empty beach

kicking bits of jagged shells

reflections lying in musk of time

setting sun ushering the darkness

My Love is here

I crawl bereft into bruised dusk

salty tears mingle with his streams

sea of solace stretches out her arms

still, I scream mournfully at deaf sky

My Love is here

balmy winds breathe his kindness

glazed stars of his wide smile

palms up, he waves his sweet goodbye

my grief blends with the soft rain

My Love is here

I see the back of his head

slumbering in billowing clouds

thirsty tides have waned

he has floated into new ripples

My Love is here

the crested waves swell

forming stiff meringue peaks

broken shells washed out to sea

waters unassuming and deep

My Love is here

the peaceful sleep of angels

on calmness of ocean floor

casting his beloved shadow

upon my azure memories

My Love is here

carving a path in the sand

through the ups and downs of life

surging currents to remind me

that he is not lost in my sea

My Love is here

a life buoy to hold on to

smooth water fingers

cushioning me from grief

the soothing sound of silence

My Love is here