To Duane Vanberkom
I have heard the stories of the war and I, too, could be mistaken for an amputee, if you can see the half of me missing. The part that should be an extension of this soul, is lost in my mother's secrecy and myths told once more to appease me.
Maybe he mistook her as one of those good-time girls, a GI's privilege? But she was a fisherman's daughter, making a living as a house-girl in the city.
I will never know if there was love in this war story from which I was born. But I hold on thinking that he may have kissed my forehead right before the last recorded sighting of him.
Hoping still that one day amongst the rubbles, I will see his silhouette walk toward me through the mist of gun-smoke and fire. Finally recovering the face that will recover me from these land-mine fields of discarded lives-- bullet-holed, severed dreams of completion. That not only he- but every life orbiting that point has become waterlogged too, and I, who was born from it, cannot go beyond these dead spaces.
by: Cristina Querrer, 1997
Amerasian, Vietnam War, Cristina Querrer, Vanberkom