Posted on Jun 06, 2010 - 12:43 PM

Four summers ago my wife June died and I thought it would be me. Wished for it in fact.

Didn’t want life without that woman. Putting up with me, taking care, even when I wouldn’t take care of myself.

Not dark, just an absence. Life completely changed like a missing echo.

We met when I came back from the war. A second posting after the first. Got shot in the leg. Didn’t get into the foxhole fast enough and crack; the back of my leg just below the knee. Deep enough to get sent behind our lines and war ended. Lucky. Caught up in the euphoria of victory and for a while it paved over the bad stuff. You got on with it. You had to.

No limp, no permanent injury except the scar. Every so often I could feel a ghost in my leg.

I didn’t like those times. Not because of any pain. There was none. Just a ghost and a reminder of guys not so lucky. Even the guys on the other side. Some of them full of dreams, turned off like a light in their full blaze. Happy it was over. Glad to be alive and full of victory.

Our return, disorderly off the ship, disorderly as being in battle. The long ago parade grounds forgotten. There were parades though, ticker tape and we marched with pride, those of us still standing, or were wheeled, or were remembered. The public danced as they always had. Like they had in my life so long ago.

June was at a dance. There was always a dance on. A band, couples moving around the floor, (usually a foxtrot) and refreshments served. Soldiers were popular. Especially if you were wearing your uniform. It was a time of possibilities.

The band was playing the old Tin Pan Alley song “By the light of the Silvery Moon”. It was an old song still popular. Dumb chance with the line “Honey moon, keep a-shinin’ in June,” I worked up some conversation and against her better judgment she took to me.

Now she was gone and I would have to follow the Doctor’s advice alone. Blood sugar, injections, schedules. Don’t worry about me. It’s not that bad; just got to take it easy on my old habits.

June would always give me a dark look when I would go into my study, close the door, pour a scotch (or three) and play my swing records like some kid on a promise. Like all marriages you have your moments and that was one of them. The music was special though. Not as special as her. Just special.

There was the later Jazz of course, Miles, Coltrane and even some stuff my son “turned me on to” (his words) in the sixties. Though swing was the thing and although I had it all ‘updated’ there would still be the old 78 records, or at worst vinyl to capture those days. An old record player for the 78s and the sound of the crusty speakers just added to the music. A filter, the gramophone speaker like a tunnel leading back in time. You couldn’t quite make out the end of the tunnel and the music was muffled like it was far away, tinny like it had lost some substance.

She was so beautiful June.

Of course listening wasn’t the only thing back in the day. Not famous, not written up, not lauded for my artistic achievements. Some guy in the passenger seat or passenger chair. A chair with a music stand, audacity and the hippest ‘charts’ ever seen. Well back then anyway.

I always told my kids, grandkids and just about anybody who would listen “stories” as people would call them. Not about the War. I don’t talk about that. Before then.

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