TERESA EISENRICH

The Sacred Duffel Bag

Its was a warm summer day when the flower delivery truck pulled up to our house and dropped off a dozen roses for my mother, I believe the note read something like "Love Michael" I was 14 years old and remember my mother pacing and repeating "something bad has happened to Michael" my brother the oldest of 9 brothers and sisters, was drafted and was now serving in Vietnam.

My mother was a single mom for my father walked out on us when we were 1 to 9 years of age, so in that moment as my mother unwrapped the wilted roses all she had was me and another brother or sister to console her. I couldn't understand why she was so upset, after all he sent flowers, he must be fine. She took out her rosary and prayed the same rosary we prayed every night around the dining room table all 9 of us. She began to pace as she prayed.

A family photo of 10 adults, 2 of which are a bride and groom. The photo is taken outside in a courtyard or yard.

Here is a family photo of us at my sister's wedding, Michael my brother that served in Vietnam is standing in the last row on the right, 3 of my brothers were drafted, my mother wrote a letter requesting one son please be left at home, the youngest brother is missing in the picture he was serving at the time and the brother that is seated in the middle finished his 3 years of service, all of us children were a year apart in age.

Before my brother left for Vietnam my mother told him that if anything happens to you call Dr Strunk (our family doctor) and he will contact me, in those days communication took much longer. Unfortunately the flowers came before the doctors call. You can imagine how my mother felt. Not knowing what had happened, imaging he was wounded in a hospital somewhere, how bad she didn't know.

All I could offer my mom was a hug and "don't worry Mom I am sure he is fine", I needed my mom to be strong, she was my Mom I needed her too at this moment. I couldn't bear to watch her go through this.

She finally got a call from the doctor and he informed her that her son was wounded and in the hospital. He stepped on a land mine and would be in the hospital for a month or so. My mother so wanted to go see him but Michael begged her not to come. He said it would be much too hard on her, not a place he would want his mother to see, too many wounded young men. So reluctantly she didn't go, she also did not have the money to fly to see him, that is why he probably told her not to come, he knew she didn't have the money.

As the days slowly passed by we waited and continued to pray, for the day he would come home. Then one day maybe 2 weeks or more after the roses came there was a knock on the door. It was the mail man. He greeted my mother with a smile and handed my mother my brothers duffel bag, the poor mail man didn't know what to say so he said nothing. My mother set the bag down on the floor of the front porch, my mom my sister and I, just stood and looked at it, it was as if they picked it up right off the combat field and dropped it in our front porch.

My mother put her hand in and pulled out his clothing, one piece at a time, slowly and methodically.

I remember it being all reddish with sand or dirt all over it. My mother just kept shaking her head, then after a few moments she began to untie it and she was crying and I kept saying it was going to be alright, at least we know he is alive I said, she continued to pull the string until the bag was open enough for us to see in. Very slowly we looked inside, it felt sacred, this duffel bag held his life his time spent on the battlefield, we were sharing a moment in time, from a fighting soldier to a wounded man from the battlefield to our front porch.

My mother put her hand in and pulled out his clothing, one piece at a time, slowly and methodically, it was like pulling him out of the bag, she set each piece of clothing down very gently, for all she had was his war clothing until he was to come home and she could hold him once again.