I know at least one of these gentlemen came back from Vietnam, the only version of my dad I’ve ever known. Like Agent Orange, the trauma didn’t stay there, but travelled back with him, a parasite of war. However, he made it out, made a life, fed the parasite just enough so it wouldn’t tear apart his insides. But now, here we are, the DNA of a long ago nightmare burrowing to the surface. My father is sick inside a sick country, luckily he never deceived himself into thinking he saved anything. He’s still the quiet guy, deeply thinking about the meaning of it all, still unwilling to ditch his uniform on the floor of a Sea-Tac restroom so a cab will pick him up and carry him home. I’m the cab driver now, taking him wherever he wants to go. He’ll always be a man first. The rest is just camouflage.