PTSDay

PTSDay

I see him sometimes

My dad

He stares back at me from the mirror

Not his eyes

I don’t have them

Or his nose

Or the lips

I have my mum’s mouth

She doesn’t need it anymore.

She had a mouth on her.

I suppose I do

It is still my dad

Scowling

Looking defeated

Winking back on a good day,

Rarely then.

It was the war,

He served,

It broke him.

We all suffered

Me, him

My two brothers

Mum.

I guess it was the hair

I had his curls

Waves of them

His colouring

My eyes are brown

But not bulging

Like his

My brother had them.

A sad French Bulldog.

I was the object of his ire

My dad’s

And my brothers

Eventually

Life is strange that way.

I answered back

Reminding him

Of his lost years

I wasn’t a girl

Wasn’t tall enough

Fast enough

Too bright

Not bright enough

I should have been older

Younger

Less visible.

He shouldn’t have been in Burma

Buried friends.

He refused to fly

Without getting paralytic first

They wouldn’t let him

Get on a plane these days

That would please him

He wouldn’t have had

To say no to Mum every year.

Instead

We would holiday in Scotland

No plane needed

One time

At fifteen

To study

With my girlfriend

Which went well

If I was going to be a smart arse

I should have been less breakable

So should he.