Pears
Growing up in the shadow of WWII my brother
grabs a pear from the Green Stamp fruit bowl,
pulls the stem out with his teeth, pretends to throw it,
making hand grenade blasting sounds.
He arranges green army men on the floor for attack and retreat,
plays war games in a foxhole dug into the empty lot next door.
As a Boy Scout he learns survival, camping out
on weekend bivouacs. With Dad, he hunts pheasant,
partridge, and sometimes deer. He becomes a good shot.
Like his father, uncle, and grandfather
he grows up to serve in the military.
His draft number comes up at college graduation, 1967.
After basic training, he flies off to Vietnam hastily prepared.
He is issued old weapons from past wars; has no rain gear
for monsoon season. My parents buy a rainsuit and mail it to him.
His letters tell of living in a track as they sweep the jungle,
rolling through rice paddies, dodging snipers, and ambushes.
His letters describe mortar attacks, direct hits, and missing limbs.
Scouting and hunting skills keep him alive in that jungle.
He tells me, You have it easy because you’re a girl,
you weren’t forced into war, or that kind of fear.
Maybe I have it easier, but whenever I eat a pear
I feel his burden — my guilt ignites
as the taste of pear explodes in my mouth.
— Annette Langlois Grunseth
(from Combat and Campus: Writing Through War, (Elm Grove Press, 2021)