Homefront

By R.T. Notaro

I sit on the porch.
It’s summer; my father rocks gently
and quietly.
I’ve asked for stories.
About the war.
About his life before….
me.
Always guarded.
Never unveiling himself.

But today is different.
Maybe it’s the heat.
Or the humidity.
Or maybe
he finally thinks I am old enough.

The Japanese, Japs to my father.
He’s allowed. He’s fought them.
A different time. A lifetime ago.
Hushed. Never expecting.
Even after my prodding.

“Three of us in a foxhole, you see.
It’s always quiet till just before dawn.”
I have to lean in closer.
“That’s when they attack.”

I sit still.
I never sit still.
But I know this is different.
Something being exposed.
“The new guy. He’s raw. Doesn’t understand.
The Japs at first light. Be alert!”

Staring straight;
never even shifting in his chair.
“It’s his turn. I go down to sleep.”
This is something.
This is….
Real.
This is my father bringing the war home.

“I barely have my head down.
And the kid’s snoring.
I jostle him. Stay awake kid!”
He looks at me.
Not like a father to a son.
Like a man needing.

“I go down again.”
My father has always been bigger than life to me.
I’m his Number 1.
He’s……
My father.

Again, I hear him….”
The only word I say in this exchange,
“Sleeping?”
The reply,
“Yeah.”
Just the slightest moment of silence.
“Get up!”
I shudder at the intensity.

“The third time…”
He tells me, the kid drifts.
“I don’t talk to him this time.”
He looks away from me.
“I put the barrel of my rifle,”
It’s not a gun
I know that.
He’s told me that many times.

“Under his chin. I click the safety.
In the quiet everyone hears it.”
I edge in, his voice softer now.
“I can hear the rustle. From both sides.
You have to understand,
when a safety clicks in that quiet
everybody knows.
But they don’t know why.
My breath is short.

My father doesn’t tell stories.
He tells jokes.
He’s light. He’s my father.
The war didn’t affect him.

He continues,
“I tell him, ‘If you fall asleep again
I’ll blow your head off.”
The only word missing was “fucking.”
But my father doesn’t use that word.
I realize I’m holding my breath.

He’s silent.
How can I possibly understand?
How can I relate?

I’m sitting on the porch.
With my father.

****

R.T. Notaro is a news photographer/writer/producer, currently working in Philadelphia. In over 30 years in the television industry R.T. has been nominated for three Emmy Awards with one win along with two AP News Awards. R.T. writes on a variety of topics because nothing should be off limits.