We all went out to dinner that last night. It was a Sunday and my brother T’s two week leave was ending. His Marine Corps battalion was being sent to Vietnam. We went to McDonald’s – not the fast food McDonalds but McDonalds Steakhouse in Pearl River, New York. We didn’t eat out much. Mom claimed she enjoyed cooking but I knew it was expensive for five people to eat out and “money doesn’t grow on trees” as my father would often say.
I was the middle son of three. T was 19, I was 16 and D 11. As usual, Mom did most of the talking, asking the waiter’s name, peppering him with questions about the menu items, craning her neck to see what others were eating and remarking about the huge portions. We all had steak and we all avoided talking about the subject that was on our minds. It was 1965 and the war was not yet nightly news but it was a war and it was along way from home. D was probably too young to understand. My dad, a World War II veteran, understood too well.
When T and I were little we played together – mostly cards and board games. When he became a teenager, however, I became a bothersome little brother. It wasn’t uncommon for us to not say a word to each other for days. That last night, on my way to bed, I entered his room. It was dark and I could see he was still dressed, just lying on his bed, hands clasped behind his head. To this day I cannot figure why or what made me say it – but I did. “I’ll probably never see you again” I said and turned to leave. “Yeah, see ya” my older brother replied.
I was absolutely correct. When he came home five months later the casket was sealed.
kongoboken 