Well-Swept Yard

In Facebook: Many years ago, around around 1970 I guess, I was in the back, passenger part, of an Afghan truck. I don't remember where I was going. Doesn't matter. I was sitting on a wooden bench along one side of the truck. On the bench on the other side was a wom an holding a baby (with a husband or brother next to her). The woman wore a chadri (burka); she was covered from head to foot. The baby began crying. The woman raised the chadri enough to suckle the baby. My eye caught sight of the mother's breast. I quickly looked away. Then I sneaked one more glance. In this natural, universal act of motherhood and babyhood I had seen the breast of a woman whose body was otherwise hidden from me. The truck was quiet. The passengers were content that the baby was in the arms of its mother sucking for nourishment and contentment. I felt content too.

Ten years ago. I vividly recall the moment when I heard that my bombs were raining on Afghanistan. I was working in the garden. A neighbor was playing his radio or TV loud enough that I heard the "news flash." I stood frozen for a moment and then dropped the tool and screamed. I saw old friends and their children and grandchildren exploding, dying, suffering. I ran inside. Tears ran down my cheeks.  I told my wife. We held each other. What else to do?

Mazar-i-Sharif February 26, 1969 We've had a week of snow. I saw it snow every day of the week. It snows in the night and melts in the day. Snow and melt. Snow and melt. The snow melts and we have mud. The mud of Mazar fights at you. It is up to the calf of the leg in places now. Everywhere it is up to the ankle. Every day I hope for the plane. Never comes. Soon I will take land transportation through the tunnels to Kabul. I have to get a shot. When a plane comes I ought to get lots of mail.