I have a picture of my father
on the trophy case in the kitchen.
It is a picture of him in uniform,
in Pisa, The Dispensary, 1st Staging
Area Battalion building, behind him.
He is happy in that picture of him,
laughing, but he is thin, the war raging in
the mountains where Germans in uniform
have dug in. He is a survivor, which in
January 1945, made him a lucky man, my father,
a living miracle, sent from the Battle of the Bulge
to recuperate and drive an ambulance to the front line
and bring back the wounded to a hospital tent like the one
he woke up in. Not yet twenty-three years old,
he had seen enough of the world to last him the rest of his life.
5 thoughts on "The Picture"
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This could be my father as well. Happy, but thin, doing what they had to do, and luckily coming home, but always carrying that dent of war.
My uncle was in the Battle of the Bulge and never really recovered from the shock of war.
Yours is such a good clear picture.
Thanks, Sylvia, recovering thinned my father. PTSD kept up a relentless attack on him.
K. Bruce, our fathers were bothers then…
“He is happy in that picture of him,”
A simple, but poignant line.
This is a beautiful tribute to a moment featuring your father, frozen in time.