The Uphill Slide

There is always something.



Why did I never sit on my father’s lap listening to his stories?

Was it my arrogance that turned me to a blank page as if he had nothing to share with me?

Did he kill anyone in the war?

Did he feel guilty for the bombs and deaths and radiation when he landed on Japan’s shores after the war?

My cousin shared a story of a rigorous jungle march with blistering feet.

Did he tell that story when I was close?

If I sit transfixed in the mausoleum he shares with my mother

Will he whisper his stories to me now?



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