Sunlight came through trees. Brilliant gold shining on lush green. Pines rich in their summer dress. Chipped bark from squirrels and birds. Needles on the ground.

I walked these woods in my youth. I played war amongst the oak and hickory. Treaded lightly through swampy ponds. Waited for Charlie to come out to play. He never did.

My uncle was a Marine in Vietnam. He’d send letters home with pictures to us. Photos of him shirtless. Smoking a cigarette with a gun across his shoulders. Hanging there like Christ on the cross. In-between two thieves. All were smiling.

There were pictures of the woods I sent to him. Asking if they were anything like the jungles? Asking if it was hot? Asked if he’d ever been shot? Asking if he’d ever bled?

The last letter he sent me said, You don’t want to know. There was a black and white photo in the foreign stamped envelope of him in his uniform. Gun at his side. He was not smiling.

I walk this forest today, thinking of him. Letters sent back and forth. Pictures.

I miss him.