Part 9 – “When the Road Turns Home”
The days grew shorter.
Autumn settled over the Missouri fields with a kind of hush Robert had come to respect—no grand entrance, no ceremony. Just gold leaves piling up where summer used to be.
Max had slowed even more.
His walks had become brief circles near the porch. No more trips to the barn. No more orchard. But still, when Robert opened the screen door each morning, Max followed, even if only to sit and breathe beside him.
They didn’t need words.
After a lifetime of pain, silence had become its own kind of language.
One morning, Lena stepped onto the porch with two mugs of tea. She found her father watching the trees. His hands rested atop Max’s back, one gently kneading the loose skin behind the dog’s shoulder.
“I mailed the poem,” she said.
“To the museum?”
He nodded. “Elena said they’re going to frame it. Put it next to the Bataan memorial wall.”
He didn’t speak for a long time.
Then: “That’s good.”
He lifted his tea slowly. The warmth helped his hands stop trembling.
“You think the rest of the country still remembers?” Lena asked.
He took a sip. “Maybe not the names. But the cost? It lingers.”
Late 1945 – Home, but Not the Same
When Robert had first returned from the war, he hadn’t recognized his own reflection.
His face had grown thin and hollow. He flinched at sudden sounds. Couldn’t sleep through thunder. Miriam had found him sitting in the shed once, gripping a rake like it was a rifle.
She’d knelt beside him, taken the rake gently, and said nothing.
Just held him.
He remembered thinking: I made it out. So why does it still feel like I’m there?
Now, in the present, he felt that same weight returning. Not of trauma—but of time.
His joints refused to bend that afternoon. He winced while lifting himself from the chair, using both hands, his elbows locked, shoulders tight. His bones had turned brittle as promises made in the dark.
Osteoporosis, they’d said. Joint degeneration.
He called it history, settling into the corners of his frame.
Max whined, sensing something.
“I’m okay,” Robert lied. “Just remembering too much.”
He shuffled to the barn one last time.
This time, Lena went with him. She didn’t offer help unless he asked.
Inside, he sat on the bench beside the old trunk and opened a folded map.
It was the Philippines again. The same route.
Mariveles. Balanga. San Fernando. Capas.
He ran his finger along the route like a man tracing scars.
Then he took a pen.
And drew a final line—from Capas to home.
Lena watched in silence.
Later that night, Max didn’t get up.
He lay beside the fireplace, breathing shallow.
Robert sat next to him, hand on his ribs.
“I guess we both marched too far,” he said softly.
Lena knelt beside him, her eyes glistening.
Robert whispered something she couldn’t hear.
She leaned in.
“I never told you,” he said, voice low. “He had a dog. Silvano. Not allowed, but he kept it anyway. Said it helped him sleep.”
He chuckled, barely.
“Name was Rico. Used to curl up in his helmet.”
Then his voice broke. “He cried the day they took Rico away. Said losing him hurt worse than the march.”
Lena rested her head against her father’s shoulder.
Max licked Robert’s fingers once, then lay still.
They buried Max the next morning beneath the sycamore tree.
Wrapped in a wool blanket.
Robert placed Silvano’s second dog tag in the grave.
“He would’ve liked you,” he whispered.
Then, to the wind: “All of you would’ve.”