The beautiful valley lay below, seabag strapped
to my shoulder, I made my way down the steep
hill for a rendezvous with my past which may have
passed on while I was away, away in the war,
away on the infinite Pacific Ocean away on Kwajalein
Island where I inadvertently came upon the skeleton
of a Japanese boy who had been doing for his country
what I was doing for mine, except he died and I survived.
The dominant dread of killing some mother’s promising
son was passing as my flight home from Guam gave me
time to reconcile living with memories and the irrepressible
Hope that the world had learned to avoid another war.

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