veteran

i never met my uncle w.o., a great uncle, an only son who disappeared inthe burning oil fields of normandy. I have pictures. he is posed with a set of weights. or swimming at the Y. he is balancing a man on his hands, juggling the human body, his focus and his stance unwavering. he is wearing an old fashioned swim suit and smiling. he is sitting on the floor in a tank top, smoking cigarettes and reading a letter from home. a young man is stretched across a cot, looking over my uncle's shoulder. i believe, like me, my uncle is gay. and that's where the pictures end. the rest of the album shows a telegram. a box holds a folded flag and a handful of medals. nothing says he died. the telegram reads "missing". and my grandmother says "last seen". W.O. was a belly gunner. he would lie face down in a bubble at the bottom of an airplane and shoot a gun at enemy planes. i imagine him flying over the ocean, the world, with just a contoured piece of glass between him and all the spaces between. one minute he is dozing, watching the earth curl away beneath him. the next minute, he splits his reverie with the rapid fire of machine guns and the explosions of engines giving up their own fight to stay aloft. i like to think there was silence as they did their slow tumble to the ground, my uncle watching the ground rise and swell, the first of the crew to kiss the earth as the plane plunged its belly into the oil soaked fields of normandy, the jolt and scream as they came to a stop breaking the silence and drift of disbelief. Noise rushes in and time careens forward. the crash has ignitied the oil and flames shoot 15 feet into the air. W.O. crawls out as the fires spread. he is surrounded. not by german soldiers but by a ring of fire. the pilot is alive but the rest of the crew is dead. he kneels next to his friend, the young man who read letters over my uncle's shoulder, and cradles his head in his lap. a plane roars low overhead, attempting to land, a treacherous rescue mission. the telegram reads that W.O. pulled off his shirt and waved them away. it was too dangerous. we all imagined he shouted, the black, oily heat searing his lungs. he coughs and tries to remain standing. the plane passes one last time. the telegram reads: "missing. last seen alive on a burning oil field in normandy." last seen bent over a young pilot, face down and staring into clear blue. adrift in the space between heaven and earth, snug in the belly of time.