Dialogue Essays: The Vietnam War

I lay on my favorite patch at the Arlinston Park, basking in the sunlight. My dagger rests beside me, half sheathed. The war was over, but I kept a weapon on me all the time. I have made many enemies.

I shrug those thoughts away. I didn’t come to worry. I came to relax. A giddy laugh builds in my throat and dies into longing. Haven’t I always wanted this? To end the war with Kazan, to settle down and not worry about our lives? Did I really want a life on the run?

Stop. Focus. Breathe. I am not here to worry. I gaze at the freshly re-planted elm trees of the Groven after Astoria began restoration. I picture Kile grunting as he shovels soil over the saplings, wiping the beady sweat on his brow every few minutes.

The thought eases me …show more content…

Itching to touch the basket, I listen as he explains. “In Amistead, we like to celebrate occasions with a picnic,” he says matter of factly. “We bring food and dine in an outdoor setting most of the time, and share it with our friends and family.”

“Oh,” Realizing how ungrateful I sound, I add an appreciative “Thank you.” I watch as Malachy pulls the checkered cloth off; shakes it into a blanket, revealing the feast he packed into the basket.

“Sit,” he motions to the blanket.

When I do, he reaches into the basket and pulls out some paper plates, unpacking in slow, deliberate steps.

My mouth waters as he places a grilled cheese before me. I snatch it and take a big bite before my attention falls back to Malachy’s basket again.

The pearly white box sits at the bottom, its splendor overshadowed by the walls of the basket. I wait for him to unpack it, to take cookies out of it or something, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he smiles at me. “Eat.”

So I do, but I sneak a glance at it every once in a while when I think he isn’t …show more content…

“Hmm…” I stare at his face pretending to decide if he’s telling the complete truth.

This disarms him, and he bursts out laughing. In the following moment, he gives in. “Okay, Okay, they did all the work.” “Besides, it’s the thought that counts,” he adds in mock defense.

“ Not that they’d let you cook,”. We both chuckle at his garlic bread incident. Long story short, the royal kitchen almost exploded and smelled like garlic for weeks. Kudos, Malachy.

Two turkey wraps, a grilled cheese, an apple and about three glasses of berry juice later, I put down my plate and ask him about the box. I don’t know, what do I expect?

“Oh.” he blushes a little. Interesting. “I was just getting to that,” Oh.

He takes the box out of the basket and I gasp. It’s a beautiful box, and though I am not one to care for aesthetics, I know I love it when I see that rounded edges lines with thin gold and the shiny half pearl mounted on top.

“For you,” he says, his voice shy.

A series of dreadful feelings well in the pits of my stomach, threatening to re welcome my lunch into the world. I run my fingers over the latch and open it. Pulling back the lid, I see a tiny cake, frosted with a mountain of vanilla frosting, embellished with tiny silver