Essay on Creative Writing: Missing Twightlite

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Though he has been dead for years, I still think about him now and then. I

am proud of him, for winning the battle that mattered most.

It was twilight, late November, and cold outside, the kind of evening when you

try to stay inside and stay warm. I hadn’t heard the phone ring when your Grandma came in

our living room to tell me it was for me. It was Lloyd, the local ward bishop, and a

counselor at the high school. After a brief greeting, he asked if I could assist one of

my neighbors. “Sure, who is it and what do they need?” I asked, expecting to help move

furniture, jump a battery or something. He asked if I was acquainted with Ralph Jones,

an older man that lived behind me about a block. I said, “I only know of him, but I do

not know him personally.”

Lloyd proceeded to tell me the man had been drinking heavily. He was

raising hell with his family, and had decided he didn’t want to live anymore. The bishop

asked if I would go with Brent, their home teacher, my neighbor, and friend and talk to

him. “Why me? I have no idea what to say to him?” I asked, trying to wiggle

out of going. “He’s a veteran of the Korean War and I know you served during the

Vietnam conflict. It’s been my observation that you veterans are reluctant to talk to just

any one about your experiences, but you will sometimes open up to another veteran.

Look, go over, talk to him, give me an assessment and I will take it from there,” he
answered impatiently. I sensed urgency in his voice, I could tell he was worried and

wanted immediate action. “What makes you think his problems stem from Korean?” I

asked. “His wife says it has troubled him for years.”

“When will Brent be here?” I reluctantly asked. “ In a fe...

... middle of paper ...

...ere were failures, but he keep working at getting

well. I’m very proud of him.” she softly said.

“You have every right to be proud of him. As a country we fail to realize the

enormous debt we owe our veterans, especially our combat veterans. Some of the most

wounded don’t have a scratch on them. It seems that unless you have endured the

experience of combat it is almost impossible to understand the enormity of that debt.

I’m real happy things worked out for the both of you. It must be tough having

him gone.” I said.

Before she could answer, the realtor said she could see me. When I came out

Mrs. Jones had left for the day; and I never got the opportunity to continue our


I was happy for her. I am proud of him, for winning the battle that mattered

most. Though he has been dead for years, I still think about him now and then.

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