On Leaving America

My five-year-old son hung upside down,

summersaulting in air from a rail he held

on to in the departure lounge.  My ten-year-old

son told me years later that he was torn

between hugging me or shaking hands,

and my little girl adrift in a world that could

only be fun at three, simply hung back.

I didn’t want to leave, but leave I did and now

God knows can never go back. 

I’m sitting in a packed, Thai, narrow-gauge

railroad car, and looking out an open

window – there is no air conditioning on

these trains that were bought second hand

from Japan – and I see my three kids again.

They’re  standing  by themselves in a field.

Some one has given them each a small

American flag to wave, but they just hold

them . . . and then they’re  gone. 

FG  11/7/2014

The only place I could find work in 1992 when I was in my forties was overseas in Saudi Arabia.  It was unaccompanied employment and, except for emergency leave, I had to be in-country for a year to qualify for leave.  Sadly, I doubt even that option exists for men in their forties today.  Ah, America.