Memories of My Brother

A poem about my brother's death in Viet Nam

In 1965 He was just a young boy
and I was younger still.
That was the year he decided
he had a duty to fulfill.
He was young, strong and fit
and he felt invincible.
He went more to chase adventure
than to support a principle.
He dreamt of John Wayne glory
from movies watched on the big screen.
Cast himself as home town hero,
saw welcome home parades scene by scene.
But while he was at war,
there was a revolution.
American beliefs and standards
suffered convolution.
Where once to serve one's country
was considered honorable;
it was now a disdainful act
that had become unpardonable.

In 1966 he was still a young boy
and I was younger still.
When they came to tell my parents,
"last week your only son was killed."
My mother cried and cried,
my dad was simply stunned.
Time froze for a moment
as my family's future came undone.
The nation gave no thank yous.
No parades were ever held.
The sympathy we deserved
was shamelessly withheld.
For while in my childish eyes
my brother was a hero,
on the nightly news
they were calling him a sicko.
They said he was a baby killer,
said he burned unarmed villages.
They called him a criminal
who killed, raped and pillaged.

Now, 50 years later,
the nation wants to honor,
all of those forgotten
and reduced to cannon fodder.
They tell the world they're thankful;
they tell the survivors that they care;
but their gratitude can not replace
a childhood lost to dark nightmares.
The nightmares of a little girl
whose brother did not come back;
a little girl bombarded
by the nightly news attacks.
About her brother who was a monster; about the babies that he killed;
As she suffered in silence,
the guilt those words instilled.
Because she couldn't ask her mother
who still cried in her sleep each night.
And her father who was so silent
as he fought his own internal fight.
Her sister was lost to her
as she blindly courted trouble.
So the little girl became isolated
in a safe, yet self-made  bubble.
She lived alone for many  years
in the safety of that bubble.
Trusting only isolation
which each year she would redouble.
She was desperate to convince herself
she was not irreparably broken.
A long harbored fear,
of which she'd never spoken.
Born of her profound belief
that hope is always crushed.
And then one day she realized
she had been taught to distrust.
Back when her brother was a young boy and she was younger still.
And two men knocked on her door to say "last week your only Son was killed."
©10/10/16 LindaTroxell