> > UNDERSTANDING > > I traveled through time last week. > Okay, all I really did was clean out a closet. But what I found took > me back nearly three decades, to a day I never could quite explain. > The envelope was worn and the letter dog-eared and crumpled. It was > written in pencil by a passionate young soldier who looked like Richard > Gere. It was written to me. > Mark was on an airplane when he wrote it, leaving Oregon for his Army > post on the eastern seaboard. In simple, transparent words, he put his > heart on paper, and mailed it off to me. > He planned to talk with my Dad and come to an "understanding". Mark > was an optimist. It would've taken a diplomat to resolve their > differences. Mark and my father were both soldiers. Neither was a > diplomat. > As I reread the letter, I closed my eyes and began to journey back. > And then, quietly, it was that day once more: > Several weeks had passed since I'd received the letter from Mark. I > was at work at a small accounting firm. At midday, I climbed in my car to > drive home for lunch. I backed out of the long , which ran past the > parking lot for a local cocktail lounge. Suddenly, my breath caught in my > throat. There Mark sat, on his beloved motorcycle. > But it couldn't be Mark, he'd left on a plane. So I didn't stop, > because I knew I had to be seeing things. But still, I couldn't keep > myself from looking back. > All logic shouted no. It was an incredible imitation -- right down to > the resolute jaw, the smoldery look in his eyes, the exact color of his > hair. And, of course, the motorcycle. > It couldn't be him. But my stare was locked, and I saw Mark looking > so intently at me, so strangely sad. > I looked out the window all through lunch, expecting a motorcycle to > boil into the drive with a furious Mark aboard. I expected a > tongue-lashing for not even stopping to talk. Even as I expected all that, > my practical mind dutifully reminded me that it could not have been my > young wild-hearted love. > When I drove back to work, the young man and his motorcycle were gone. > After work, I hurried home, thinking there might be a message from him. > It didn't make sense, but I still expected it. > My father met me at the door with three words. "Mark is dead." I > felt my legs go weak and my head began to spin. > "He was killed in a traffic accident." It happened that day, he said, > in South Carolina. > My heart broke, and my tears fell like rain on the hard concrete of > the driveway. > Because I had lost him. > Because I had seen him. > Because I had passed him by. > Although Mark and my father never did reach their understanding, I now > visit them in the same place. They are at rest at Willamette National > Cemetery in Portland -- a very honorable place for two soldiers to be. > Even rugged soldiers need flowers sometimes. So I bring them. And I > remember. > > -- Christy Caballero O * O *O * O O * * O <º)(((((~((((((>>>< * <º)((((~((((>< missi