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Show retirement ceremony where my adolescent brothers stand awkwardly at his side receiving leis and congratulations from his co-workers. It must have taken her hours to hunt through the boxes in the attic and find the old pictures. I imagine her coming upon the photo of her pinning his boards onto his shoulder under the watchful eye of his commanding officer, officially making him a Lieutenant, both so young, headed for a tour of duty in a country that they had to locate on the map when they first received the orders. I imagine her choosing the album, expensive leather in a rich brown tone, thick pages on which to mount keepsakes. I see her carefully arranging the notices of his Change of Command ceremonies, the certificates denoting his awards: his E for excellence, his pin for marksmanship, choosing the best pictures among many. All the time wondering how such a gift would be received. When he unwrapped the present, the final gift opened that Christmas, he was at first unsure of what he held in his hands. Ready with the smile he shows upon opening a gift from any of us, a smile that marks his willingness to love anything given by his family, he opened the album. We all gathered behind him as he paged through the book, eager to see what my mom had made, enjoying the novelty of these pieces of the past that were new to us. Repeatedly I said how much work such a gift represented, how wonderful it was that my mother had saved the artifacts of a twenty-five year career. Initially, the leaves of the book brought my father happiness. He laughed at their youth, a young married couple, raised on the Plains, riding around in Jeepnees, my mother wearing heels to sightsee in Manilla, their new home. Together my parents recalled the friends they had known, the bases, the beaches, and the decisions they had made. As his career marched forward, however, he became silent. Now he turned the pages quickly, 211 |