The Stranger; The Diary, And Vietnam

A dark cloud hung over his head like a tangled web of sin.

He wandered in from the street smelling of foul cheap gin.

His hair was unkempt, his clothes mere rags of disarray.

All eyes in the diner bled with disgust as the stranger came their way.

His hair was long and gray; ancient scars snaked across his face.

He sat down at a nearby table and starred emptily into space.

The waitress came to his table to take his order wearing the mask of disgust.

Her previous smile slipped into a distasteful frown as the stranger brushed away from his clothes yesterday’s dust.

I watched with interest being not too close, yet not too far.

I wondered about the stranger as others did from the start.

While waiting for his order he reached into his pocket and produced a stumped half smoked cigarette.

Soon the patrons of the diner returned to their mindless idle chat.

They forgot about the traveler, as quick as last night’s dream past.

A few minutes later the waitress return with his food on a tray.

As others chatted intensely, I watched as the stranger over his food prayed.

I set aside my newspaper and asked the waitress for a refill of tea.

There was something about this drifter that truly in my heart intrigued me.

I watched as he ate like a man who has been long without food.

The crumbs from his sandwich clung like ants to his beard less groomed.

He finished his meal, and with a simple shift of the eye caught me starring at him.

I then saw him sift through his pockets counting his change.

Seeing this I called the waitress aside, I told her that the stranger’s meal is on me and to let him slide.

This she did and to him acknowledge so.

He then turned and looked at me, and with a nod of thanks he got up to go.

However before he left, to the edge of my table he came.

Then in a gravelly voice to me he spoke.

“I thank you son for your gift to me, for it has been days since I’ve ate; now it is I that has something for thee”.

Reaching into his coat pocket he produced a thick, tattered book.

He laid it on the table before me with worn hands that slightly shook.

I looked at the book which lay now before my eyes and noticed a small circular hole.

The stranger cleared his throat and once again continued to speak.

His words were heavy with memories of long ago silent dreams.

“My mom he said gave this diary to me when I left for Vietnam in ‘68.

In this book live the dreams of men like me who in hell did serve”.

“Within these pages are the tales of Nam in 1968, most of the voices herein are silent now, yet they long to speak.

Thus young man, this is my gift to you”.

The stranger then turned and left to which way he came.

I watched through the diner window as he crossed the dusty road and vanished into the summer’s wave.

I turned my eyes away and looked at the book in my hand.

I thumbed through the pages and heard the many voices without any name.

As I read briefly the shaky crude script, I could feel their fear and smell that death was near.

Entry after entry told of the horrors of a misguided war.

Some pages were stained with blood, others were crystal clear.

I then found a large fragment of a bullet about three fourths of the way.

Then I recalled that the stranger removed the diary from his left breast pocket that day.

Conclusions were easily drawn for this diary stopped a bullet in a once faraway place.

I went to close the book and noticed an inscription on the back page.

It brought tears to my eyes as I read the simple words.

“Dedicated to my son; J. T. Wilson…September 7^th 1968”

“Dear son, I bought this book for you a week before you were to ship out.

I inscribed the dedication on the last page knowing that if you were to get that far, it would mean that you came safely home to me…Love always…Mother”.

I still have the stranger’s diary today, yet I now know he was no stranger, but a cousin whom we all thought was MIA.

J. Allen Wilson © 6/26/2010