The Visit - Part 1 (1968)

By David Beakey

Above them loomed the portrait, dominating the small room.  It was a den, or maybe a family room.  But now it was a shrine, with Gerry's medals prominently displayed.  And the giant painting, depicting him in his dress blues, looking somber and formal.  My eyes surveyed the scene: his parents huddled together, his sister weeping, his comrade staring at the floor.

I had come reluctantly.  I knew it would be difficult for everyone.  I was only three weeks away from the firefight that had claimed my buddy, my comrade, and their only son  I was home on leave, trying to suppress the dreams.  I had debated whether or not to come.  I knew they would cry, knew they would ask me for details.  I looked up at the wall, at the Purple Heart and Silver Star.  But I avoided the painting; I couldn’t look into those eyes.  Gerry's sister sobbed.  The clock ticked.  Gerry's parents were staring at me, pleading silently for any information about their sons’ last moments.  I felt sick.  I wished I hadn’t come.

Over the years I visited them, often near the anniversary.  The sister never married.  The father grew frail.  The mother often looked at me strangely, with a gleam of pride.  She would remark how well I looked, ask me about my life.  She never seemed bitter.  Her husband passed away.  Her daughter never left home. But the mother prevailed.  She visited the monument weekly. From my home, I would watch her, peering from behind the drapes.  After she left, I would walk to the stone, with its flagpole, and pray as well.  I often wondered how I happened to buy the home next to the monument.  It must be a coincidence, I thought, to now live in Gerry's old neighborhood and to watch over Gerry's mother.

The Visit - Part 2 (2008)

I still own the house next to Gerry’s monument. I keep the monument clean and beautiful. Every spring I place 16 small American flags along the walkway to the monument. I make sure that a big, clean flag flies on the flagpole. My Marine Corps buddies help me sweep, rake and cut the grass. We wash the granite stone with water. People stop at the monument for many reasons. They read the inscription on the stone and they read the poem. The neighborhood kids are very respectful. Sometimes, a couple of his high school friends visit the monument. They went to college when Gerry joined the Marine Corps. I watch them from behind my curtains, wondering who they are.

Every evening I walk my neighbor’s dog. We often pass by the home where Gerry lived, before the fighting, before the war. I have stopped by several times over the years to say hello to his mother and sister. His father died years ago. His sister never married. She lived at home with her mother. The last time I saw his mother, she had trouble hearing me, so I stooped down and told her that her son was a wonderful man, very brave. She smiled. The next time I went by the house it looked different; the drapes were new, the mailbox was new, etc. I rang the doorbell and a Vietnamese man appeared. He told me that Gerry’s mother had moved to a retirement community in Arizona. I felt as if part of my mission was accomplished. But when I returned to my street, I immediately realized that the shrubs near the monument needed to be trimmed. The flowers needed watering. There was still work to be done.