Andrew Kurchak

The Uniform in the Closet

By Andrew Kurchak

I see it, tucked in the shadows,

the olive-green uniform at the back of the closet —

worn and stiff — its color faded like old moss,

the fabric rough as sandpaper,

carries a faint, metallic scent of sweat and gunpowder.

It’s an old relic of my father’s other life,

a life sealed behind his eyes,

a life he doesn’t disclose.

It isn’t a medal of honor, nor a source of pride,

but an incredible testament to the spirit of survival.

He wore it before I was on this earth,

when to him the American Dream was still over the horizon

each seam stretched with the weight of sacrifice,

each day he persisted, like a stone in his boot.

This uniform traversed oceans, like a raft of memory,

kept afloat by silent prayers and cautious hope.

It does not salute the Soviet beast,

but bows to the man who overcame it —

the man who carved a future with bare hands,

so I would never forget

what it cost to give me what he never had.

Author’s Note: What inspired me to create this piece, based on my father's old Soviet-era uniform from before he immigrated to the United States, was the importance of all of the sacrifices he has made, all for the benefit of myself and the rest of my family. His hard-working nature, waking up everyday putting others first, abandoning his entire former life across an entire ocean to make sure he could guarantee his children a greater life than he had — it makes me so incredibly grateful and feel forever in-debt.