Good Morning, Apocalypse Now : a Tribute To a Vietnam Veteran

Untitled 5 (My Uncle: Good Morning, Apocalypse Now) My uncle doesn't speak much about Vietnam or the stuff he witnessed when he was just a boy. See, he likes to drive the back roads fast and honk at random cars that pass. His friendly gestures always lead to how he grew up compared to kids now. Jumping and racing trains on the tracks became dodging bullets and carrying his buddy on his back. The marshes and dirt valleys here became the forests and trenches of the military frontier. Last year, my sister donned his jacket a fatigued fatigue that hung in his closet. In color and memory darkened, kept out of sight for fear it would harken the PTSD he's stuggled to avoid. He saw his brothers, young like him to Vietnam succumb while on American soil and he promised he would never speak, for fear his stomach would coil, when remembering rice - a dish he no longer enjoys. And there's no orange on his clothes to remind him of the agent that destroyed. When he speaks a calm "Good morning", I wonder if he's thinking of Vietnam or if he knows that I admire his strength and bravery and how he continually fights against the "Apocalypse Now".