Bridget Hayes
I’m worried that it might never stop snowing, just like I used to worry that I’d never get out of Vietnam, my dad fretted to me over the phone. With one hand, he reaches out and puts these disparate anxieties in mine. When I curl my fingers around them, I can see snow dusting the palmed canopy of the jungle. Not a single flake melts despite Vietnam’s proximity to the equator. The base is snowed in. The general calls Washington, D.C., and asks for a shipment of snowplows. The helicopters are socked in. Nobody has enough clothes, but the beer is finally cold, and the fighting has stopped. The Vietnamese have never seen snow. The Americans are distracted, making snow angels, a beer can in each hand. An announcement over the PA declares that one of two things are going to happen: The snowplows arrive, we plow our way to the airport and go home, or the snow melts and we will win this damn war once and for all. To the soldiers, neither seemed imminent and everything felt like a dream. So, they played, they drank, and they tried to keep warm.
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Bridget Hayes lives in Northern California with her wife and two orange cats. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Yellow Arrow Journal, Wild Roof Journal, Ionosphere, Ginosko Journal, Ink In Thirds Magazine, and Bear Paw Arts Journal. She is a tech librarian who helps people overcome their fear of technology. When she is not reading or writing she is likely outside. Visit https://bridgethayes.carrd.co/ or follow her on Instagram @beoutside2writes.