War Stories

(Reader's note: the following is not really relevant to the typical content of this blog. It is merely something that is in my mind today, and sometimes those things need to be said to no one in particular.)

I've been having dreams lately about Bob. Bob was a really close friend for the years I spent in DeKalb (grad school), and although we didn't stay in touch well after I moved, it hit me really hard when he died a few years ago. I don't really know why I related to him so well, especially since he was quite a bit older than me and came from a very different background. Yet I remain haunted by the things he told me about his experience in Vietnam, and I think that my friendship with him is the main reason that I'm somewhat obsessed with the sociological fallout from that war.

Bob was an artist, and although he was working on his undergraduate degree when I knew him, his life experience made him gravitate toward the grad students more. Some of the best memories I have of that time period are of Bob pounding on my studio door late at night, a couple beers in hand, just wanting to sit and talk for a while. I like to think that he appreciated the differences between us the same way I did. And I like to think that he was really happy in the time shortly before he passed away; I know that he had found more peace in his personal life anyway.

The things that remain, tangibly or otherwise: the late lamented '89 Dodge Caravan, the few pieces of his artwork that I have, the unrolled cigarette paper whenever he was finished with a smoke, cassette tapes ("nicotine and waiting....just wanting to keep it alive..."), and the image of the flag being handed to his wife at the funeral.

So maybe the dreams are just to remind me. It's good to reinforce the memories, good or bad, right?