We were cleaning out the attic
For the estate sale when we found
My fathers’ letters to my mother
from Vietnam, near Khe Sanh.
The pages old and yellowed,
The ink, in places, faded.
written in a boyish script,
with dried tear stains on the pages.
These were written from a battle
in a long and costly war.
They hold a tale of love and longing
For his wife and the child she bore.
My father was a Seabee
On the airstrip at Khe Sanh
By the time the siege was lifted
He was already gone.
The letters end abruptly.
He never made it home.
My mother set aside the letters
and lived the rest of life alone.
I never knew my Father
He never held his child
Still he found a way to touch me
with his letters from Khe Sanh.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:27 AM UTC
We were cleaning out the attic
For the estate sale when we found
My fathers’ letters to my mother
from Vietnam, near Khe Sanh.
The pages old and yellowed,
The ink, in places, faded.
written in a boyish script,
with dried tear stains on the pages.
These were written from a battle
in a long and costly war.
They hold a tale of love and longing
For his wife and the child she bore.
My father was a Seabee
On the airstrip at Khe Sanh
By the time the siege was lifted
He was already gone.
The letters end abruptly.
He never made it home.
My mother set aside the letters
and lived the rest of life alone.
I never knew my Father
He never held his child
Still he found a way to touch me
with his letters from Khe Sanh.
A middle aged man and his wife make a discovery in the attic of his deceased mother's house as they are cleaning up for the estate sale
Request permission to use this poem