My mother’s brother, I only saw him
once I recall, after World War II when
I was five, maybe six. I barely skim
his vision now, dressed in brown, body thin
as a birch, pecan-shaped face like my mom’s
and mine. We sat over bowls of home-blend
vegetable soup in our kitchen. She hummed
of their seven siblings. He just listened.
Shell-shocked from combat, hand trembling, chain smoke
surrounding him. He didn’t stay long. I
watched him disappear in the sun that broke
through thick clouds where Kavanaugh curved down by
Van Buren. I still hear her crying, low
voice sighing, Oh, Joe…oh my dear, sweet Joe.
Joseph Roger Armbrust
October 25, 2008
