Distant Harbors

Dad talked about the war.

As Dad spoons sour cream on his baked Idaho,

and forks strands of alfalfa

from a Tupperware bowl, he calls up

memories of his war:

The troop ship took a week

to cross the Atlantic, and many

men became sick.  They ate canned rations

and showered with salt water soap.

Quarters were cramped, and it rained

on the ocean.  They disembarked

at Le Harve, France.

Dad talks of flying over the Alps

in a DC-3, and of the increasing cold

as the plane reached higher altitudes,

and of the men reaching up

to warm their hands from the overhead heaters.

In Naples they ordered a pizza,

but the people were watching them,

and they saw hunger and sadness in their faces,

so they could not eat, and left quickly.

Dad took photographs

of the cemetery where his brother

was buried, navigator on a B-24, killed

in action.

There were long trains crossing the countryside

with weary soldiers sleeping on duffel bags.

And, near the end, there was the excitement

and joy at the cigarette camps

as the men awaited return to the States.

Dad fills his silver tea ball

with his mixture of Lipton and cinnamon spice,

and pours boiling water to the very top.