Inspired by a man I met last Thursday night, after a lecture on research/historical fiction.

You stayed after the lecture.

Dapper in your out of style windbreaker, hands shyly tucked into pockets.

“May I tell you my story?” you asked in a quiet voice

accented by a geography that no longer exists.

I listen:

You were fifteen. Escorting your uncle to the train.

It was Easter Monday. 1945.

You say this twice.

Easter Monday. 1945.

And you were strafed.

Well, the train was strafed. P-39s. Americans.

Why? I asked, my brain sifting through my WWII research notes. Why?

You shrug. The Germans. As if this explains everything.

Ack-ack guns on the train. They were transporting men. Materiel.

You lean in, continue.

When I got here (you point to the floor, meaning the US, not the Skagit Valley Senior Center), well many years after I got here, I did some research.

(You are eager to tie this story into the topic of my lecture)

I have the photo, you say,

of the day I was strafed.

(I step back. A photo. Think of it.)

I found the pilot, you continue. We’ve had lunch.

You offer this to me with casual generosity as if you are sharing your lunch of Guláš :

“take a taste.”

It is sour and peppery, this pungent bite of the past.

And I chew and chew and chew.

Your white hair.

The fifteen year old boy.

The bullets.

The photo.

The story yet to be told.