War is never over, not after the last bomb or the last gun shot.
Golden Spike
The signs were there: when students need to talk
they hang around my desk, playing with my stapler or
realigning my pens and pencils until there is privacy
for courage to emerge.
“Sometimes”, she quietly started , still playing with pencils,
“I get up at three in the morning and hear my dad crying.
I go downstairs and he’s sitting on steps, crying in the dark.
He was in the Vietnam War; He won’t talk about it
but I watch him cry a lot. He can’t sleep. I know because I always
see him on the steps. I wish I knew how to help him.”
Damn! Here’s that war again.
No child ought to be wakened at 3 a.m. by a father’s tears.
No child ought to be sucked in, to twenty five year old wars.
No child ought to have dreams of brightly crayoned images
disrupted by black ashes.
I wasn’t trained to undo the nature of war.
I didn’t know how to banish the phantoms of war.
Maybe…maybe…I gave her a copy of Golden Spike.
“ I wrote these poems about the war.
Maybe your dad will find this book helpful.”
A few weeks later, she wrote in her class journal: Private to Miss K:
My dad is always reading your book.
He carries it around with him and he’s not getting up anymore,
he’s not crying anymore. Thank you for helping him.
Is it okay if I keep the book a bit longer? He wants to know,
did you know someone from the Vietnam War?
“Yes”, I wrote in her journal,
“Tell your dad I knew someone just like him.”
On the last day of school, once again she stood near my desk.
“I’m sorry for not returning your book, but my dad
is still reading your book.”
“I gave that book to both of you. I’m so glad
my poems help him.”
She held on to our hug, whispering,
“Thank you, Miss Kakugawa.”
From Echoes of Kapoho by Frances H Kakugawa
Watermark Publishing
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