Dear Son. I wish I had the power to write The thoughts wedged in my heart to- night As i sit watching that small star -- And wondering how and where you are. You know, Son, it’s a funny thing How close a war can always bring A family, who for years with pride Have kept emotions deep inside. I’m sorry that when you were small I let reserve build up a wall I told you real men never cried -- And it was Moms who always dried Your tears and smoothed the hurt away So that you soon went back to play. Now suddenly I find my son A full grown man with childhood done. To-night you’re far across the sea Waging war for men like me. Well, somehow, pride and what is right Just dosen’t seem to go to-night. I find my eyes won’t stay quite dry I find that sometimes men do cry -- And if we stood here face to face I’m afraid we’d find men do embrace. Son, All Dads are a funny lot And if I’ve failed you in some spot It’s not because I loved you less It’s just this cussed manliness. But if I had the power to write The thoughts wedged in my heart to- night The words would ring out loud and true I’m proud, my boy, yes, proud of you. - A. B. Nowell, July 7, 1943 He wrote this poem, put it in an envelope, stepped outside to walk to the post office to mail it, then a military jeep pulled up with a Chaplin who stepped out and said “On behalf of a grateful Nation…”
Posted on: Wed, 18 Sep 2013 04:29:05 +0000
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