Fading Photographs- By Michael D. McCombs

 

 

 

The crackle of ancient paper rustles through my mind,

 

Like parchment over handled, frayed breaking of age.

 

Tired and worn from the passage of years.

 

They were fresh once, in another place, in another time.

 

They carried the images of loved ones, of I once knew, caught forever;

 

or so I dreamed.  The colors were bright and the focus just so.

 

Sharp for the things and soft for persons I had chosen to cast

 

Into the forever world in the cloister of my skull.

  

 

 

Little things mostly like a leaf in the spring or a flower in the snow.

 

They held the peal of the laughter and the thunder alike, safe for

 

tomorrow's thinking. There were some big things too, that counted for

 

more to me than all the springs that had passed behind me.  Soft eyed

 

children, a grandmother's smile, the final passing of a friend.

 

The ones that seem most faded are of yet a third kind.

 

The ones that tell the story of a younger man, in an alien land,

 

fighting a war without end and not knowing why he does.

 

 

The sharpness is gone from the friends by the wire or on the berm;

 

the mountains beyond and the stars that shone in that foreign land

 

beyond a graying ocean. Good friends, too.  Friends to die for and

 

with, or to die for you.  Nametags faded beyond recall.  The sound of

 

their voices covered by monsoon rains or incoming rounds.

 

 

 

 Even the places are going: Kontum, Nha Trang, Pleiku, are simple blurs

 

on the paper that used to hold so much more.  Even the tank has no

 

corners and the napalm burns only gray; tracers leaving lines without color.

 

 

And what of Weet, and Sarge, and all those who gave this strange place

 

a reason, however cryptic, for being at all?  Pain and love and hate

 

and fear are all but gone.  Only the strongest have survived the years

 

intact, or I think they are.  The rawest hate and fear, unmitigated by

 

the lesser, the gentler things that made even these less horrible.

 

So I reach out, with my feeble hands and softly grab,

 

trying to save all of these that I want to keep so badly.

 

The fading photographs from my mind's own album.

 

 

 

 

 

Return to ranger25.com

 

 

 

 

Hit Counter