KARL KIRCHWEY is a professor of English and creative writing at Boston University. He is the author of seven books and editor of two anthologies, including, most recently, Poems of Healing.
I.
My father’s younger brother, for whom I am named, was a Navy fighter pilot attached to the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise during World War II. He was 22 and a lieutenant (junior grade) with Fighting Squadron Ten, called “The Grim Reapers”—its logo was a skeleton, wearing a flying helmet and goggles, making a steep dive while holding a bloodstained scythe. On June 15, 1944, the first day of the invasion of the island of Saipan, in the Northern Marianas, his plane was shot down by Japanese anti-aircraft fire—or perhaps by friendly fire from a U.S. Navy ship bombarding the island—and crashed into the sea. His body was never recovered. He was, according to custom, listed as missing for a year, and then declared dead. I was born 12 years after his death, yet throughout my life, he has paid me posthumous visits every 15 or 20 years. His present visit may be his last, for although he lives in a world beyond time, I do not.
My great-great-grandfather was Karl W. Kirchwey, my grandfather was Karl W. Kirchwey, my uncle was Karl W. Kirchwey, and I am Karl W. Kirchwey. This is altogether too many members of one family with the same name. Why do people name their children after themselves, or after their siblings? In my father’s case, I understand it: he had lost his younger brother, whom he loved, in the war. What greater tribute could he make? My wife and I, however, had no intention of naming either of our children after anyone in the immediate family. My uncle was called “Kayo” or “Weet” by his family, “Karloff,” “Kirch,” or “Wendy” in prep school, and “King” by his fellow pilots. Nicknames and pet names are one of the great imaginative luxuries that a family has, one of the many ways to express whimsy and tenderness. Among all these names, I will choose “King” to disambiguate my uncle. Yet by doing this, I feel that I am moving him further away from my own life, further into the realm of myth and memory. And anyway, I know that Karl and King were not the same person.
II.
In the first book of Virgil’s the hero and his men lose all but seven of their fleet’s ships in a storm. Landing on the North African coast, they recover their shattered forces, building a fire, drying the grain spoiled by brine, pouring out wine, hunting for game. With dread in his own heart, Aeneas tries to rally his troops: A joy it will be one day, perhaps, to remember even this.” In that first book of the epic, the history and aftermath of the Trojan War are narrated no fewer than four times, in different media. The first mention is by Aeneas to his own mother, Venus, who is disguised as a young girl out hunting. Next, Aeneas’s exploration of Carthage with his comrade Achates leads him to a grove where Queen Dido is building a temple, and he weeps to see wall paintings of scenes from the Trojan War, “feeding his spirit on empty, lifeless pictures.” He even finds himself represented there, “swept up in the melee, clashing with Greek captains.” Concealed in a dense mist and
