This is My Father - Joyce Roschinger

This is my father, nineteen years old, wearing an Army uniform, standing on the steps of a house in another country, wide eyed, big grin on his face, looking directly into the camera.

This is my father standing by a grave in India smoking a cigarette. He washes the bodies of dead American soldiers before they are placed in boxes for the trip back to the states.

This is my father who can't get a job because he was a demolitions expert during the war. But he gets a job as a welder and learns to build bridges and buildings.

This is my father behind the barbecue in our backyard. He turns hamburger patties and burns his fingers as he unwraps corn on the cob. He squints into the camera. It is a summer day.

This is my father, his voice rich and full and purple, fills up the room in the evenings with my mother, lingers in our bedroom after he says "good night". Other times, my father's voice spills out into the street and finds us playing in backyards. My father says he does not pray because he does not know how to whisper, even in church.