In this land of lush jungle and squalid
refugee camps, the beach and the patio form
a haven. A beach for play: smooth sand,
gentle waves. The patio for sitting, talking,
drinking: grey concrete, kept clean by mama-
sans with hose and broom; dotted with small
tables, each with its brightly striped umbrella.
She sits in a lawn chair, aluminum with yellow
webbing, exactly like those in Mom's backyard.
He sits in another, green.
The tropical sun is warm, quiet, serene.
Last night's explosions are over -forgotten-
as a bad dream is forgotten in the morning.
The breeze from the north is cooling, salt
laden as it moves from the Pacific across
the harbor to where they sit.
The noises of war: helicopters, jets, boat
engines; tanks, APC'S, jeeps, Hondas are
ignored. Not heard. Only his deep voice,
sharing items of interest to colonels, and
her soft voice, responding to his rank and
masculinity. Her dress is sleeveless, short,
sunflower yellow, allowing her to bask in
the sun. It is not important that her role
is that of listener -admirer- the assigned
role of her sex for hundreds of years. It
is only important to feet warm, treasured,
wanted; safe for the moment. She squints
her eyes, idly scans the sun-glittered waves,
sips her gin and tonic, and listens with the
part of her brain not otherwise engaged.
He speaks of his days: how it is to be a
lawyer in a war zone, of a problem the Marines
are having with the Army. He speaks of
helicopter crashes, and botched rescues,
and negligence. She listens and nods, sunbathes
and daydreams. She gazes at the water, today
so similar to her own beloved Pacific, thousands
of miles away.
She notes that something new has appeared
on the waves. Idly she wonders that she had
not seen it before. She considers where it
might have come from and what it might be.
She watches, and sunbathes.
Her stomach begins to chill. She knows.
She asks: look, what is it? She is afraid
to say what she knows.
He cannot see it -continues to speak of what
is important to him. She is silent. The sun
glares, no longer warms. The ocean is foreign,
alien, violent. The object -she cannot
say its name yet- floats closer on the tide.
Finally others see it -but now there are
two- they launch a boat, row out to retrieve
the body. Another body. A third.
In flight suits, swollen with three days
submersion. White. Blue. Black. Khaki.
She remains silent. Ice cold. Unable to
see the white of the sun or the blue of the
waves, only the black of the shadows.
He becomes still.
The beach remains, sun-drenched, wave-washed.
The patio is clean, flat. Empty.
[MARILYN MCMAHON (1988), in: Visions of War, Dreams of Peace, 1991, pp.10-12] |