I smiled. “‘Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.’”
It's hard to imagine how the aftermath of war affected the millions of men who returned maimed in body, but mostly in spirit and their families. Thanks Ben, for bringing this encounter through the eyes of one such family.
This is such a moving story. I can't help comparing how my parents were after the war. I was too young to comprehend any of it, why my father was the way he was. I grieve that he carried all that inside him, unable to express it and be understood. And yet, man in his stupidity still believes war is not only necessary but desirable.
Ours was a generation raised by parents who suffered through PTSD. My parents were in Europe and so had six years of it. My Dad never talked about it. Once in a while he'd watch a war movie and say: "They need to pipe in the smell of it." He was a member of the Dutch Underground. The "Resistance." Not a lot of fun things.
I don't think anyone understood PTSD in those days. The men and women who were involved were expected to just get on with their lives afterward, like they could forget the horror.
This story keeps delivering solid devastating lines. Wonderful, Ben.
“And what’s at home for me?”
I smiled. “‘Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.’”
It's hard to imagine how the aftermath of war affected the millions of men who returned maimed in body, but mostly in spirit and their families. Thanks Ben, for bringing this encounter through the eyes of one such family.
"The sun behind him caught his figure and cast his shadow to the side like it was a neglected memory."
"Cars and trucks passed by overhead, the sunlight winking off their windshields, their tires singing across the new surface."
"There followed a moment of silence that hung between us like the smoke from his cigar — something without explanation and defying definition."
"He laughed and puffed on his cigar. “Apology accepted.” He added a nod and a grin."
Beautiful stuff, Ben. You inspire me to take more time with my own work, to slow down and get it right.
This is such a moving story. I can't help comparing how my parents were after the war. I was too young to comprehend any of it, why my father was the way he was. I grieve that he carried all that inside him, unable to express it and be understood. And yet, man in his stupidity still believes war is not only necessary but desirable.
Ours was a generation raised by parents who suffered through PTSD. My parents were in Europe and so had six years of it. My Dad never talked about it. Once in a while he'd watch a war movie and say: "They need to pipe in the smell of it." He was a member of the Dutch Underground. The "Resistance." Not a lot of fun things.
I don't think anyone understood PTSD in those days. The men and women who were involved were expected to just get on with their lives afterward, like they could forget the horror.