It was how her right hand slipped
from mine,
while she clung to the ladder with
her left
as the chopper lifted
that became the nub of my
nightmares.
We found her in Vũng Tàu
at battle’s end – hiding in my
tent –
a tiny, shivering kid,
poorly clad.
In halting English, she told us
her family was dead.
She’d watched from the sidelines,
saw our paramedics work – and
followed them.
Months in that apocalyptic jungle
and two mates had adopted dogs.
None had nurtured kids:
we kept her out of sight and fed.
Decades later after surgery in
Sydney,
I woke woozy in Recovery.
Dr. Van, my surgeon, grasped my
hand –
though I’d not met her pre-op.
‘We didn’t let you go,’ she smiled.
It was her –
then she was gone.
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