"baking bread, 1971..."

I met him at the diner during an early December blizzard
I had just started a new pot of coffee and was wiping down
the counters after the dinner rush.  The diner was quiet,
as quiet as the large flakes of snow dancing in the light
from the sign in front of the empty parking lot, outside
the wide windows that loomed above table-top jukeboxes
playing Crystal Blue Persuasion and Hooked on a Feeling...

I saw the headlights from his blue VW beetle slice through
the snow and pull into the space nearest the front entry
he came through doors announced by the sleighbells that
let us know when someone was coming or going...his
the collar of his army jacket pulled up high over a black
turtleneck sweater, jeans, boots and a wooden cane...his limp
as near the sound of a tear falling,  as the lump that formed
in my tight throat with each tap along the black and white
tile floor.

His story had been told a million times by a thousand  other
boys...the delta, schrapnel, a free ticket home...nothing the same...
his parent's had moved, school friends were in college...he
was different...inside...especially inside...he said with a look
of sad wearines and confusion written on every expression...

I listened until my shift ended and my apron was
hanging on the hook behind the stainless steel swinging doors
stamped with diamond-shaped pattern, each with a
steamed-up porthole window, and that barely masked
the echo of the cook's voice shouting at my replacement in Greek

We sat and talked until my dad arrived to pick me up, but not
before I invited him to dinner that Sunday afternoon....my dad would
like him...a vet and all...we'd talked about the war, and his desire
to move to rural Maine, start a farm, carve wooden toys,
and bake bread to sell at the nearest village store...

And for months, he taught me how....