The First Tear
The outer office is small, the white door melded into the woodwork almost unnoticeably. The walls almost bare, with the exception of a large clock, its ticking loud, reminding one of tapping at the door. The hands long, stretching out, seeking the black numerals to no avail. Beside the quiet door, a fish tank, its inhabitants lazily moving to and fro, constantly moving, yet going nowhere. Their large eyes, unblinking, staring forward almost as in a trance. To my right, the entry door. Large, unyielding.
I feel my palms, wet with perspiration. My mind racing with fear, anxiety, questions. The clock on the wall, the ticking louder now. The door, my only escape, seems larger, more opposing, more intimidating. What question will he ask, what memories will he stir, what pain will he bring.
I gently rock, my padded chair squeaking in protest. My eyes darting around the room, yet always back to the door. The clock pounding now, yet yielding no time. The fish, hanging there, frozen in time. The dark door my only egress to safety. That damn door, larger now, mocking me, that damn door.
The silhouette of a man beckons me. The room is larger, darker, warmer. The silhouette sits back, a dark book case framing his body. My eyes flick left to his accomplishments hanging dryly on the wall. Then to the right, a clock, this one quietly staring back at me. And now to my rear, dark, foreboding, almost hanging above me, looking down as a predator might, was the door. I feel my body begin to buzz, my hands wet as I wring them together, the ringing in my ears almost deafening.
I stare at the floor waiting for the silhouette to speak. I lose focus as my eyes begin to well with tears. What memories, what visions so long buried will he evoke.
I feel my lips start to quake, my eyes darting around the room trying vainly to seek escape.
“I understand you served in Viet Nam?”
My eyes stop searching. My hands stop wrenching. I freeze. The silhouette asks again.
“I understand you served in Vietnam.”
A disembodied voice, soft at first, unsolicited.
“Yes, yes I did.”
“What brings you here today?”
I’m staring at the floor, my eyes begin to water and my mouth is dry and quivering. I hear the voice again. Even softer than before.
“I didn’t do enough.”
The silhouette. “You didn’t do enough of what?”
The quiet voice. “I didn’t do enough, they died anyway.”
Then I felt the first tear as it fell upon my hands.
by Contributing Poet Perry Walker Copyright © 2025
VWP 2025 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
The outer office is small, the white door melded into the woodwork almost unnoticeably. The walls almost bare, with the exception of a large clock, its ticking loud, reminding one of tapping at the door. The hands long, stretching out, seeking the black numerals to no avail. Beside the quiet door, a fish tank, its inhabitants lazily moving to and fro, constantly moving, yet going nowhere. Their large eyes, unblinking, staring forward almost as in a trance. To my right, the entry door. Large, unyielding.
I feel my palms, wet with perspiration. My mind racing with fear, anxiety, questions. The clock on the wall, the ticking louder now. The door, my only escape, seems larger, more opposing, more intimidating. What question will he ask, what memories will he stir, what pain will he bring.
I gently rock, my padded chair squeaking in protest. My eyes darting around the room, yet always back to the door. The clock pounding now, yet yielding no time. The fish, hanging there, frozen in time. The dark door my only egress to safety. That damn door, larger now, mocking me, that damn door.
The silhouette of a man beckons me. The room is larger, darker, warmer. The silhouette sits back, a dark book case framing his body. My eyes flick left to his accomplishments hanging dryly on the wall. Then to the right, a clock, this one quietly staring back at me. And now to my rear, dark, foreboding, almost hanging above me, looking down as a predator might, was the door. I feel my body begin to buzz, my hands wet as I wring them together, the ringing in my ears almost deafening.
I stare at the floor waiting for the silhouette to speak. I lose focus as my eyes begin to well with tears. What memories, what visions so long buried will he evoke.
I feel my lips start to quake, my eyes darting around the room trying vainly to seek escape.
“I understand you served in Viet Nam?”
My eyes stop searching. My hands stop wrenching. I freeze. The silhouette asks again.
“I understand you served in Vietnam.”
A disembodied voice, soft at first, unsolicited.
“Yes, yes I did.”
“What brings you here today?”
I’m staring at the floor, my eyes begin to water and my mouth is dry and quivering. I hear the voice again. Even softer than before.
“I didn’t do enough.”
The silhouette. “You didn’t do enough of what?”
The quiet voice. “I didn’t do enough, they died anyway.”
Then I felt the first tear as it fell upon my hands.
by Contributing Poet Perry Walker Copyright © 2025
VWP 2025 First published in VietnamWarPoetry.com
Bio: Perry Walker is a former Marine who served in Viet Nam. He served at and around the DMZ between 1966-1968. This prose poem describes his first experience sitting with a combat counselor.
Except where otherwise attributed, all pages & content herein
Copyright © 2014 - 2024 Paul Hellweg VietnamWarPoetry.com All rights reserved
Westerly, Rhode Island, USA