He pressed his forehead against mine.
Six months later, Thomas’s mother called and asked me to come over.
“Don’t let me become some sad story you tell when you’re old.”
“Then come back.”
“I will.”
Six months later, Thomas’s mother called and asked me to come over. Two officers were sitting in her living room.
His aircraft had disappeared during a mission. They had no confirmed crash site and no body. His status was missing in action.
When American prisoners began returning home that year, I searched every list.
I asked whether he might be a prisoner.
“We can’t rule that out,” one officer said.
For years, those words were enough to keep me waiting.
Thomas’s parents moved out of state the following year. We exchanged a few letters, but by 1973, we’d lost touch.
When American prisoners began returning home that year, I searched every list our local newspaper printed. Thomas’s name wasn’t among the names I saw.
