Bin Of Forgotten Memories

Sam dug through a bin of her father’s old stuff in the basement of her childhood home. The yellow cover was caked with dust and the thought of his forgotten life made her want to cry. Why hadn’t she asked about him when he was alive? Why didn’t she want to know who he was before she came around? Because she was too busy being a self-centered teenager, she supposed. Too busy thinking about numero uno. Herself.

She lifted the cover off and placed it on the floor. Inside the large plastic tub were his dog tags from the war. Old photo albums, and notebooks. Newspaper clippings with headlines that read. Big Guns Repel Enemy Attack, Battles in Viet Brush Cost Reds 148 Dead, 14 GLs Killed As N. Viets Hit 3 Bases.

Behind the clippings was an old polaroid of two young men smiling. Both thin, tanned, and shirtless. The man on the right was wearing dog tags around his neck, with sunglasses and a helmet. He had a rifle pointed upwards, and a big smile spread across his face. The man on the left was shorter, with darker skin and a look of stone cold seriousness. On the bottom of the page it said Hill 500, Vietnam.

She turned the picture around. The name of her father Roger Evans was written in cursive, and next to his name was written, Jordan Walker. Chu Lai, January 1969.

Sam turned the picture back around, the man with the rifle and the big smile was her father. She couldn’t believe it. He looked young. He looked happy. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, dad. What happened to you? What happened over there?”

Then there was the envelope sitting on top of a blue photo album. To Sam written in large bold letters. The paper was dusty, akin to the rest of the bin of forgotten memories. She held it for minutes before gathering the strength to rip it open. In her mind, the contents were sure to destroy her no matter what they said. Because he was gone, and there was no way to respond.

The letter was dated February 1988, two months before she was born. On the page he wrote about his fears of becoming a father. The tangled mess in his head, and how certain truths about him were sure to kill her. If not wholly, then in bits and pieces.

He wrote that he’s sorry about what the war had done to him. And how he loves her, and her mother, more than they could ever imagine.

Then there was a small poem at the bottom of the page

Sammy my Love

My heads filled with bloody hills

The days can be easier to forget

But the nights stand still

For you I fight two separate wars

Though I know someday my body lay still

I hope I’m around to see life in your eyes

But gone on the day my truth finally kills