Here Comes the Sun (1969)

“Lucy, how did this happen?” Nick asked me quietly, looking down at the ground.  He ran his fingers over his skull, where his once long, beautiful blonde hair was shorn.1

I sat beside him at the bus station.  A soft spring breeze danced through my chestnut hair, and some of it caught in the tears that were cascading down my cheeks.  “How were you supposed to know you’d get drafted?”2

A long sigh issued forth from him, and I not so much as saw but felt him caving in.  He rested his head upon his hands, and his eyes never strayed from his soft fatigues.  His thin ankles were enclosed by oversized combat boots that made his thin legs like toothpicks in their massive bulk.  His face was bare from where he had shaved it. There would be no more ponytails and beaded knits for my dear older brother. I watched him as he wrapped his willowy arms around his small-framed body.  He was helpless, his small form exposed and his hair shaved. And they were sending him off with a rifle and those ridiculous clothes to kill people that we didn’t even know.3

I reached over to his quivering shoulders and placed my hand on his back. It seemed to calm him, and he looked up, meeting my eyes. “You’ll write me?”4

I smiled. “You’re kidding, right? How could I forget?”5

That seemed to lighten his downcast mood.  He straightened himself, leaning back and stretching his hands far above his head. “Of course. How silly of me.” His laughing grey eyes met mine once more, and then he reached forward, pulling me into an embrace. “I’ll miss you.”6

I had to hide my tears from him. “You just come back.”7

The bus pulled up to the curb to take Nick away from me.  He put on his best smile, patted my shoulder, and said quietly “Just remember our song, Lucy.”  Then he began to sing softly in that quiet voice of his. “Here comes the sun, little darling, and I say it’s all right .”  Then he reached for a large olive drab duffle that was sitting at his feet and slung it over his shoulder, mounting the stairs onto the bus.  My eyes followed it as it pulled away from the station and disappeared from sight.  Then I walked home, locked myself in my room, and cried.8

I sat on my bed, thinking of little.  Outside, the cold autumn air blew crisp red leaves about the street.  They crinkled and cracked as their dry edges scraped across the pavement, and the whirling sound drifted hauntingly to my alert ears.  How long had it been since Nick had written me?9

I couldn’t remember anymore.10

I heard someone ring the doorbell.  I stood up and glanced out the window to see a man in uniform waiting outside.  My heart could have very well stopped in my chest.  Was it Nick?  I stepped on a tube of acrylic paint, knocking over my easel in my rush to get downstairs.  Loosing my balance several times I stumbled down the steps, and made my way to the landing.  My mother had already welcomed him inside.  His back was to me as he stood in the kitchen.  Then I was met with deep emerald eyes, and I knew he wasn’t my brother.11

The soldier stood rigidly with two white envelopes clenched in his white-gloved hand.  As he glanced at my wide eyes, he pulled at the collar of his dress uniform with his slender fingers.  Then he looked me in the eye fully and surveyed me in my unkempt splendor.  “Are you Miss Lucille Johnson?”12

I watched him, unsure of his true purpose, but nodded my head. Several pieces of mahogany hair crossed my eyes, obscuring my vision, but I paid it no mind.  With a shaking hand he pushed one of the envelopes into my grasp.  It was addressed in slanted letters by an unknown hand.13

“I realize that this is not normal procedure, but Captain Sullivan insisted that this be delivered to you by hand,” the soldier said, turning his eyes away, keeping the second letter, addressed to my mother, in his grasp.14

I entered the living room with the letter pressed tightly to my breast and collapsed onto our vermilion chaise lounge.  I tore the letter open in a fever of mixed anticipation and fear.  Then I grasped the folded paper inside and read it slowly, taking in every word.15

Ms. Johnson,16

Let me introduce myself.  My name is Captain Francis Sullivan, your brother’s commanding officer.17

It may come as a shock to you that I was very close to your brother. He was a unique young man and a brave soldier.18

I know that you do not agree with this war.  I understand.  There is much your brother shared with me, about himself, about you, about what you believe.  Though I have made the military my life, I am also in conflict over this war.  Before you jump to conclusions, there is more to tell.19

Not only was your brother an incredible person, he was also a fine soldier.  Don’t ever believe that he was here raping and pillaging like the leftist slander may tell you.  It’s false.  Your brother was the kindest man I have ever met. His love for the Vietnamese was overwhelming.20

On August 14, 1969, our platoon was stationed in the Demilitarized Zone when we were hit by heavy fire.  We were forced to split up, and I was temporarily disoriented.  Then your brother was beside me with his rifle, ready to defend me from any foe.  Your brother Nick saved my life.  However, it was this day that your brother collapsed in my arms from an irreparable stomach wound.  He asked me many times prior to write you should anything happen to him.  He wanted you to know the truth about the war.  I am confident when I say that had your brother returned to the States safely, he would have retired his previous life.  Please accept my deepest regret at having to tell you this, but with as often as your brother spoke of you I felt it my duty to be honest.21

I regret that we could not have made first contact on happier circumstances.  However I look forward to meeting you, one who seemed to shape my soldier, my friend, into the strong man he was.22

Sincerely,23

Captain Frank Sullivan24

For a moment I was in a state of shock.  From somewhere within the envelope a photo slipped out onto my lap.  Its corners were torn, and the image was faded, but from the dark shadowy forms I could just make out my brother’s smiling face, and that belonging to a taller man with dark hair and ebony eyes who must have been Captain Sullivan.  Tears clouded my vision as I turned the image over in my paint-covered fingers.  The back of the image was scrawled with my brother’s handwriting, and its message was simple, yet it touched me with the same force as the Captain’s letter.25

Always remember, sweet sister26

Here comes the sun...and it’s all right.27