"Pretty, pretty, bird." That's what he said as we stood under the overhead to sheild us from a light, liquid sunshine, Japanese rain. At the time, it seemed inconsequential. Later, after I had become sick, I began to read much more into it. It seemed trivial to hear it, something like that, coming from a man like that. I thought him a bit crazy, but I hung on his every word, because to me he was a superman. He always seemed tired, as if he wasn't sleeping well. It wasn't that we were friends, but I would often see him under the overhead smoking. I think he appreciated the bird, for the moment without war, despite the seemingly continual threat of it. By war, I mean a global nuclear exchange in which all creatures great and small would be annihilated. On my way home from the base exchange, where the officers homes met the enlisted homes, he would often be on his porch smoking. I imagine he is somewhere, as I write, smoking and watching birds. God bless him.
|The views expressed in this article are the sole responsibility of the author
and do not necessarily reflect those of this website or its editors.