I heard her walk out the door – So I followed, calling her name. My mother doesn’t sleep these days. She’s been trying desperately to hold smoke that she still thinks is flame. But it’s drifting away. “You’ve got to be a man now,” was all he said to me that day. “Care for your sister, and say your prayers before you sleep.” Then he packed his bags, and went out overseas. It wasn’t long at all ‘til I learned to drink. (After all,) I’m my father’s son, not the man he was. But she still hears his voice, each time I speak. He sacrificed for friends and family… but that ain’t me. All she remembers is the letter they sent. It said he’d been missing almost three whole weeks. She still swore he’d make it home okay. She still thinks he will. It’s this goddamn disease. Old man was out earning medals while my mother got sick at home. It almost broke her heart, you know — when he sent back pictures of those geisha girls. “You’ve got to be a man now,” was all he said to me that day. “Care for your sister, and say your prayers before you sleep.” Then he packed his bags, and went out overseas. I’m my father’s son, not the man he was. (I’m not the man he was.) (He’s safe now. And quiet, underground.) Take her down to his headstone. “Your husband came home years ago. The war couldn’t take him, but the cancer did.” He ain’t never coming back.