My Dad was a Vietnam veteran.

He was drafted.

Served two tours.

Rear door gunner in the 101st Airborne.

There were things you learned quickly

to love a man

who has seen war.

A man who had the Grim Reaper on his right arm.

A man whose cold stare would give you chills.

I always thought my dad was like Rambo.

Standing in our front yard together, he froze.

He saw something in the far-away distance

that I could not see with my naked eye.

He instructed me to run and bring him his rifle.

In one swift movement, the rifle was to his shoulder,

and the shot rang out.

After a long walk, we approached, and

a deer lay flat where his aim had fired.

The man saw everything.

Do not disturb

the faraway look in his eyes.

Black silk pajamas triggered his PTSD,

and he told me

never to wear them again.

That was alright with me.

I understood.

He kept no secrets from me.

I sat beside him as he

chain-smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, and

went into vivid detail about the sight, sound, and smell of death.

Men, women, children, animals.

War spared none.

It certainly did not spare him.

He told me once how a young man in his unit

received a “Dear John” letter, and

the next thing you heard was a gunshot.

Dad said that man didn’t have anything to live for after that.

Sometimes Dad would “disappear.”

Sleep for days and emerge a new man.

He slept with a loaded pistol by his head.

Close enough for a quick reach.

Fast enough for a quick death.

Early mornings when I couldn’t sleep

I would walk gingerly to his bedside.

I knew better than to sneak.

Tap gently.

No sudden movement.

Stand statue-still,

arms by my side

until he opened his eyes

and recognized my face.

He’d get up from bed

brew coffee, and

turn on CNN.

I watched the news anchor on loop

until my eyes grew heavy again.

I wondered

why people wanted

bad news

so early.

Dad would bring me a cup of coffee,

and it tasted so sweet.

I asked him what the secret was.

He swore he’d stuck his finger in it.

We would watch the sunrise together

on the old, rickety porch.

My dog, Freckles, beside us.

He would whistle and call birds,

and try teaching me how, too.

Most mornings I would

eventually go back to sleep.

Other times, I would stay awake, and

help out with chores around the house, or

on the farm,

or start on schoolwork early.

I still love the sunrise.

My dad has been gone for 16 years now.

Lung cancer from exposure to Agent Orange.

Orange, like the sunrise we shared.

I still think of him in everything I do.