This poem, penned by my wife Ginger, was attached to a beautiful wreath and sent FED -EX overnight to my hotel in Nashville (reunion 99). It was occasioned by a terrible fight we had over an idea I had to read from a book, Circa 1940, called; "An RAF Airman's letter to his mother." I found this three page book in the estate of a B-24 gunner during WW II. It was one of those 'If I die or turn up missing' letters. Exceptionally moving.
Ginger in her
anger, or in fear, accused me of being morbid; why
couldn't I think "happy thoughts." My
PTSD went from 0 to 100 in a nanosecond. I refused
to talk to her all that night and was dead silent on the
ride to the airport. On the morning of the 1st
before the 187th Mini, the wreath, and this poem, arrived
at my hotel door...... It caused me to burst into tears.
She has a hard time understanding why I don't
complain about ordinary things like herself or
others. This poem reflects her new awareness.
She finds me where I live, accepting me for who,
and what I am. She amazes me......
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© 1997 2001 WMH