Mt. Moriah Redux

On my eighteenth birthday
My dad drove me
To the Will County courthouse
To register for the draft.

Vietnam was staggering on
And would for another four years.
There was plenty of time
To lose and arm or leg.
Plenty of time to die.

Dad was silent the whole way.
We listened to the radio.
I could have gone alone
But dad insisted he take me.
Kind of like Abraham taking Isaac
To Mt. Moriah.

We parked the Buick
And walked together
To the second floor
And into an office
With Selective Service
Stenciled on the opaque door.

It did not take long.
I provided two forms of identification
Signed a form
And was told
My draft card would arrive by mail.

Reversing our course
We returned to the Buick.
Dad put the key in the ignition
But did not turn it on.
He paused.
An uncomfortable silence
Hung in the air around us.
He finally spoke
While staring into a space
In the far distance.

If they call you up…
If you have to go…
I’m going with you.

I almost told him that was impossible.
I almost told him no fathers were allowed.
I almost reminded him he was too old
To reenter service.
I wanted to remind him he had his war
That this one was mine.
I nearly revealed my foolishness.

But I suddenly understood what he was saying.

He was telling me he did not want me to know war.
He was trying to say he needed to protect me.
He was letting me know he loved me.

So, I nodded, biting off what I nearly said.

I let a few seconds pass as well.
Then I said
I love you, too, dad.

And he started the car.