Mad Scientess Jane Expat
A thorn, a feather|
It's late, I've had a long day and I wasn't able to observe the two minutes of silence at 11 this morning, so I'm having my time now.
I remember my grandfather and his time in the Navy during WWII, that he would never discuss except to tell the most frivolous of stories and the most off-colour jokes. I remember asking him once why he never joined a veteran's organization. He said that such groups were for those who had not experienced long periods of combat operations. I don't think I agree with him, but it is true that they weren't for him. He certainly didn't have any positive sentiments about those times, and he felt it best to forget (or repress) them as soon as he returned home.
I remember my grandmother, who must have been lonely and sick with worry while he was off in the South Pacific for months without contact, but never showed it to her young daughter. I remember that she wouldn't talk about those times either, except to tell stories about the antics of my mother.
Was there a point at which so many emotions and words were dammed up that they passed the point of being able to speak forever? How loud and chaotic their silence must have been. How grateful I am to choose that mine be contemplative, to select my time to grieve.