Veteran Airman Nicholas Miele skillfully juxtaposes a personal rite of passage with a personal loss.
—
The Day I Stood in the Command Tent Hearing of Your Death, Father
Twentyfour hours earlier I’d earned the right
to have my nametags sewn onto my uniform.
In a week I would be called Airman, not puke,
moron or imbecile. The talks I thought we’d have
surged electric as I sat there on the bus heading out
to Warrior Week—finally my flight and I away
from the dorms, away from the blue ropes
and concrete parade grounds. All I had to do
was be a great night watch, learn self aid
and buddy care, qualify with an M16,
and crush an obstacle course while enjoying
some MRE’s. Our bus stopped—the woods
had never been so perfect, resin and pine, gun oil
and dirt. February was cold in San Antonio
but work kept us warm. Our cadre gave instructions
and short hours later our gear was stowed, tents pitched
and cots made. It was time to hit the chow hall for dinner—
my gut gurgled but not so loud as the boom of the big voice…
First Sergeant Cisneros greeted me
funny, I thought, you don’t get called here
unless you’re in trouble or–he gave me the news
and sat back, quietly observing me, beige walls,
phosphorescent light, is that a poinsettia…
I wonder what chow is…
“Miele, would you like to call home?”
I knew enough to say, “Yes Sir.”
Now, seated atop this rock wall I can almost hear
Keith beat boxing or a smart remark by Rob
or Tony as we ate our Charleston Chews
in the summer time. That crab apple tree,
we’d hurl those apples back and forth all day long—
you never checked up on me, Dad
so I understood
when Mom and Dom had spoken that day,
liver, dying, Hepatitis C,
come home and pull the plug.
The tree still watches me,
branches nude, warden of years of sky.
***
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Photo by US Air Force /Flickr
A great poem Nicky. I miss him too.