Shell ShockA Poem by Gee No PTSD back then..
July 27th 1918
I remember hearing the front gate opening then pushing past mum and running to the front door screaming " dad, dad, " at the top of my lungs. He smiled, dropped his battered old suitcase and scooped me up in his arms. I buried my face in his neck, my tears staining the collar of his navy shirt. He held me tight, so tight that I struggled to breathe, but I didnt care, at that moment I wanted him to hold me forever, to never let me go, to promise that he would never leave us again. I heard mum tell him how much she loved and had missed him, could hear the tears in her voice. For the next hour we sat at the kitchen table, me on dad's knee mum next to us, them drinking tea and talking whilst I sipped a small cup of lemonade, a treat, whilst clinging to his side. September 14th 1918 I lay in my bed, could hear them arguing. Dad was drunk again, was telling mum she wouldn't understand, could never understand, whilst she, over and over told him to talk to her, let her try to umderstand. I heard the front door slam. That was the first night dad didn't come home. I cuddled in with mum, her telling me everything would be okay, to stop crying, that dad would be alright. November 12th 1918 Charlie Whitburn, a near neighbour ( also 8 years old) came running to me in the playground, he excitedly asked if I'd heard about the body found in manor woods. They were saying, he told me, it was an escaped convict who had frozen to death in last night's frost, although later it turned out to be a local man that had hanged himself. November 14th 1918 When dad still hadn't come home, mum told me he had gone away to get better, that he needed help, and not to worry because uncle Tommy, dad's youngest brother, would help around the house. Over the next month or so she cried often, trying her best to hide it from me, but I knew from seeing her red, rimmed eyes when she had been crying. Gradually though this became less frequent, eventually replaced by laughter, this invariably whilst in the company of uncle Tommy, who now seemed to be always at ours, often staying over in the spare room. December 24th 1918 I saw mum kissing uncle Tommy. I was sneaking downstairs to see if Santa had been, what he had left, when I saw them, on the couch, kissing and laughing. Before they saw me I cept back to bed, cried myself to sleep. I miss dad so much. December 25th 1918 Mum gave me a present, said it was from dad. It wasn't his writing on the tag. I hate Christmas. April 30th 1920 At first I had asked many times daily as to when dad would come home, but gradually, as the days turned to weeks, weeks to months, I stopped asking. Not because I didn't care or miss him as this would always be so, no, it was more a case of a growing realisation that he wouldnt be back, which seemed odd really, as when he had left in 1914 to fight the hun over in France, I knew he would back, just knew it... Now however, he was never mentioned, not by me, mum, or his brother, and I knew, deep down inside, I'd never see him again. © 2022 GeeAuthor's Note
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GeeMilton keynes, United KingdomAboutDevoted family man and lover of life. Simply written, easily understood "stuff" for those without code breaking skills. You will NEVER need Google to understand me:) more..Writing
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