Read on Twitter
When I was 6 my uncle took my mother, brother and myself to pick up my dad at the Presidio. Him smiling from ear to ear as we were in my dad& #39;s Plymouth Road Runner Coupe, he had dutifully tended to as it sat waiting for my father& #39;s return from 2 tours of duty to Vietnam.
(1/7)
(1/7)
When we finally saw him he looked so fragile carrying his duffel as he walked towards us. We couldn& #39;t even hug him he reeked so badly from infected boils that covered his entire body, caused by Dioxin the main contaminant of Agent Orange.
(2/7)
(2/7)
We had to stop twice during that hour and a half ride home at road side motels so my dad could wash the stench of rotting flesh off of him to no avail. I remember the ragged whistle he couldn& #39;t help but make as he took in sharp breaths as quietly as he could,
(3/7)
(3/7)
every time my mother gently passed soap, water and washcloth over each and every weeping sore. A small kindness to his children who sat on the other side of the bathroom door, scared, crying, and holding hands so tightly our palms began to sweat together. My uncle sitting
(4/7)
(4/7)
in the muscle car turning the radio& #39;s knob loudly from country stations to Christian stations in order to drown the lot of us out. We got back into the car, my father finally taking the wheel and turning it into a McDonald& #39;s drive-thru.
(5/7)
(5/7)
As he ordered food the car behind us backfired and without a second thought my dad opened the door, slid out and scrambled under the orange Road Runner and its bold black racing stripe, screaming at us to follow.
(6/7)
(6/7)
