When Saigon Fell

When Saigon fell, my son was 6.
His father and I had been divorced three years;
his father had been in Vietnam in 1969,
the year Michael was born; the year of tears.
When Saigon fell, I sat in the living room with my mother,

on the couch, while my son played Legos on the carpet,
and we witnessed the chaos--people in their terror
storming the gates of the Embassy--
the choppers taking off, one after another;
people waiting on the roof,
a child in the arms of her mother.
I don't believe my mother and I spoke at all
while we were watching Saigon fall.
My son was making car noises: "vroom, vroom"
while we listened to chopper sounds
in the comfort of our living room.
I remember thinking it was over, what a relief,
what sorrow; what happens to Saigon's people tomorrow?
What good ever comes from War?
All the lives lost, floating away
like the windblown, weightless feather?
(Michael, get up off the rug;
and come give mom a great big hug)
and then, the commentator said
Let's talk about the weather.

Christina Sharik

Copyright ©2003 Christina A Sharik Updated 4-30-03