Pearl Harbor

Hey Pop. It’s been over a year now. I flew back to Boston for your funeral. I was the only one of my brothers to make it. I’m sure you didn’t mind. They were all pretty busy now and besides they never got you like I did. I’m sure you didn’t want a bunch of people crowded around your casket blubbering. I didn’t cry at your wake or your funeral. I didn’t want to look weak. You were probably proud of me for that. I guess being stoic is in the blood. I’m not that tough though. I wept later on in my room. I know you saw me but I hope you didn’t mind too much. My dad cried for you. That’s more emotion then you ever gave him. He’s too good of a man to buy into the bullshit that you and I buy into.
I only have a few memories of you. Like how you used to roll up your right pant leg just above your knee and let me see your scars from the War. Long and pink-like lighting bolts shooting down your thigh. I never had battle scars to show you but I do now. A nice one inch gash on the back of my head. I didn’t get it storming a beach or warding off global fascism like you. I didn’t fight Japs or the German wehrmacht, just some frat guys in pink Polos and ass high khakis. Five of them and one of me. I bet you would have liked those odds. I’m not real sure who started it. I don’t think it was me. I’m too quiet for that but I was drunk and I have some of your mean streak in me-some of that blood that can’t walk away. There wasn’t much honor in it. Just fists and boots on my face and ribs. I got worked over pretty good. I woke up a few hours later on the pavement and as I wiped the blood and vomit off my face with my ripped shirt I looked up at the sky and part of me felt like you were proud of me for taking a stand. Whatever I was taking a stand for. You had Okinawa. I have drunken frat brawls. We take the wars that are given to us.
How am I supposed to live until my real fight comes Pop? You didn’t have to wait like me. Tojo attacked Pearl Harbor and you were good to go. I’m trying to be patient. You used to tell me stories about how you were the arm wrestling champion on your ship during the war. Sometimes I feel like I should have been on that ship with you. People now they don’t’ understand men like you and I. I need a war. I need a proving ground. It’s not here. There is no glory in Facebook or the Real World or iPhones. I can’t find any honor in Jager bombs and bar sluts. Nothing. I need to be a champion like you.