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I wrote this poem for my paternal grandfather, who died of lung cancer when I was about 7—he was of an era where filterless cigarettes were the norm, and he loved his Lucky Strikes.
Maybe some of you have had a similar experience: even though my grandfather was in my life for such a short time, my few memories of him are towering. This is hard to explain. He didn’t talk much (like me, sometimes), and he used to take me out to the small airport near his home in Syracuse to watch planes take off. We would simply stand there, most often at dusk because he knew I liked the runway lights, and watch machines fly.
He served in World War II under General George Patton, and never talked about it, like many veterans of his era (my father relayed to me stories he had heard). He went to Europe with four of his brothers (a fifth, the eldest, stayed home) and they returned safely, building houses right next door to each other on a small street called Gordon Avenue—there is a photo of them all, in uniform, together in Paris. He did indeed earn a Purple Heart, which is the fact that centers this largely imagined poem. I remember being profoundly sad when he died, in whatever way a seven-year old can be sad that differs from how I might experience that now.
I hope you all are doing well and are looking forward to Thanksgiving.
Purple Heart by Chuck Rybak He has saved the bullet. It rolled inside the purple box that held the purple heart. When he shook it near his ear, the bullet rattled, the led husk of a red-hot insect. Being so young, I thought bullets had wings, but when my grandfather opened the velvet box, it was dark and bent, stubbed like the butts that sat in the ashtray. He said the transparent wings had melted away when it flew into his leg. Where? I asked. He would say, Germany and laugh, knowing I wished to see the scar. The purple heart had brought him home, the three-inch scar the only thing that kept him and his tank out of Berlin. By then his lungs bled in secret and my dad once joked, if you don't quit soon with the smokes, will have to put a cigarette butt in with that bullet. When he couldn't live at home any longer, the purple heart sat by his hospital bed. He told me he was wounded, just like in the war. When my grandfather died my father wept and chain-smoked on the way to the service. Hidden in my palm was a cigarette butt I hoped would be hot enough to burn. I shook my fist by my ear and listened for the rattle. I blamed my hands for the silence.
Great poem