In 1961, at 48, I came home from service and began spending Monday mornings in the park.
I carried paper and a pencil. The old people carried bread for the birds. They walked slowly, stopping whenever there was something to look at. Nobody seemed worried about where they would be in an hour.
I tried to guess their stories. I preferred the versions in which they had worked things out.
My pencil wore down. I wrote about causes I could no longer explain, though I had once considered them worth dying for.
When I was away, I missed the people I loved. Now I sat beside them and caught myself wishing I were somewhere else. I had wanted to come home for so long. What the hell was I waiting for?
It began to rain. The birds scattered and the old people left. I stayed until the paper softened under my hand.
For a moment, I could taste blood. I thought of the men who hadn't come back.
They told me it was over.
I was still there.