what it is

what it is s

I open my grandmother’s trunk and the smell of cedar recalls my father’s woolen army blankets, faded and frayed.  The inside of the chest had become their home, a refuge from the memories woven into fibers that had crossed the ocean twice.

My father would not talk about the war itself, but he brought home with him both blankets and cots.  We never used the blankets.

On hot summer nights my brothers and I opened the cots to sleep in the basement, unaware of the secrets they could tell us, the images seared into our father’s eyes and carried in his bones.

all those silences–
invisible ink written
on the wings of birds

what it is close up a

Day 28 NaPoWriMo–the prompt is to describe a significant space from your life.

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18 thoughts on “what it is

  1. Haunting, K. All this is are messages if we can only see them. I feel bad for your dad having to see combat. My dad was in WWII and only talked about it once and it was a happy memory. He wanted to spare us, I think.

    Liked by 1 person

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