April 1969 Week Fifteen: 204 There's something tidy in seventeen syllables, a haiku neatness that leaves craters of meaning between the lines but still communicates what matters most. I don't have the time or the space to write more, so I'll write what needs to be remembered and leave it to you to fill in the gaps if you feel like it. In 1968, sixteen thousand five hundred ninety-two American soldiers died in Vietnam, and I'm dedicating one syllable to each soul as I record my own losses suffered in 1968, a year like no other. _______________________ January 1968 Week One: 184 The trouble started on New Year's Eve when Mom came home late. Way too late. Worry about Mom-- and about Dad--knotted my gut while Dad paced the living room like a panther ready to pounce. "Where the hell is she, Ashe? Those damn activists . . . I shouldn't have let her go. Well, that's the last time, the absolute last time she mixes with trouble- makers. It ends now!" He looked at me like it was somehow my fault, but I knew better. He had to blame someone, and I became an easy target. But it made me angry at him-- and at Mom, too. Why couldn't they just get along? What I wished for the new year was peace at home, in Vietnam, and the world. A normal life. Was that too much to ask for? The door creaked open, Mom stepped in, and Dad pounced. I crept up the stairs, closed my door, and tuned out. ? ? ? Later, Mom tapped on my door and came in, timid as a new kid late to school. And she smiled even though she'd just had a knock-down, drag-out with Dad. There was a light in her that I hadn't seen in a long, long time. She wanted to check on me, to make sure I was okay, to tell me that May 17, 1951, was the best day of her life because it was the day I was born, and even though things had been rough, she had no regrets. Not one. Then she hugged me and whispered that maybe, just maybe, there was light at the end of this dark tunnel. "You never know what's coming up the hill," she said, then left me alone, worrying. Excerpted from Death Coming up the Hill by Chris Crowe All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
