Photo: jeanne rene watson

Don't tell me, he's come home.

Do not declare, while in my presence, you must be so relieved now that he's home safe and sound.

I know he pulled into the driveway in his 89' Brougham Cadillac on February 8th 2013,

don't tell me I don't know, because I am his mother

and I remember

in 1989 Johnny was three years old, lining up toy cars in perfect row after row.

Period.

Exclamation mark!

I know he's come home.

I tell you, I saw him come to a halt in his 1989 Brougham Cadillac,

and I could see he was the sole keeper of bulging sea bags, and desert utilities,

dress blues and contraband he reclaimed from sergeants living off base.

Proprietor of all 5 years crammed into the backseat,

I know because I still remember full scale battles were fought (with sound effects)

on multi-leveled terrains across the carpet, over shelves, dressers and twin beds.

I still hear spontaneous stratagems barked to little green Lieutenants and Generals,

as battles were won with ease

and then Johnny would come out of his room,

hug me at war's end. Period. Exclamation mark!

Johnny came home,

and those sea bags were propped up in the corner of his room

four, five, six months, eight months and they are still at ease in the same corner.

Johnny came home.

I recognized him when he entered my bedroom ... I thought you might want these ...

and he folded my hand over a patch stained with Afghanistan

and a dog tag he had kept in his boot, just in case all that was found was a foot (I assume).

And I know my son remembers me. It’s because I understood why he remained so calm

that night I called to tell him George had put a gun to his head.

I am certain that’s why he remembers me.

Marching to a repetitive buzz, buzz, buzz … Johnny came home.

I told you, I know he came home,

because I examined my son, cover to shine of shoe, as he gave a heavy deliberate salute,

saw him depart with precision on his heals ... leaving the flag embosomed in a mother's misery.

I saw him step in time to the buzz, buzz, buzz … buzz, buzz, buzz.

... make it home for your mother... George had told Johnny.

Johnny’s not doing so good … George had told his mother and his mother told me.

But, there it is! The Cadi is parked in front of the house. Proof. Period. Exclamation mark!

... but I am searching

for the freckles across the bridge of his nose and ruddy cheeks.

I was ... I am deviously digging in between every word left unsaid,

sifting through cigarette butts smashed on the heal of his boots,

flicked into the air and dropping dead on the driveway

for a shred of DNA, a reason to believe he's come home.

And, alone in my back yard, I look up and swear at George ... you came home to your mother,

you son of a bitch, you came home!

Johnny, come home.

Rewind.

Return.

Period.

Exclamation mark! 

© Jeanne René Watson