War Story by Jerry Durick

                     War Story

 

I have a black and white winter picture

of my father and grandfather standing

in front of our house on Willard Street.

 

They are at the mouth of the driveway

and have been shoveling, but stop to rest

and look at the camera for a moment.

 

I can almost hear my mother saying, let me

get a picture. They aren’t smiling. The snow is

deep. The snow, even from here, looks heavy.

 

They aren’t dressed for the job. They are

indoor people caught unprepared for this,

the weight of the weather, the need to smile.

 

It must have been a lull between storms,

the need to get to the store, and the lack of

anyone more fitted to the task at hand.

 

It is the 1940s. This is men’s essential work

summarized in shades of gray, one moment

captured in what must have been hours.

 

It is the 1940s. They look tired and older

than they really were. They are the heroes,

in a way, of this, their terrible small battle.

 

It is the 1940s. There must be a world war going

on somewhere, over there, beyond the snow

banks, beyond this pause in heavy shoveling,

 

but this was the 1940s in a place apart, where

the day-to-day could this easily be cleared away,

where a moment was worth holding on to.