~those without graves~
~fathers’ day greetings!!!~
Is there a reward comparable in life to raising children? My qualified answer is no. I say qualified because I have enjoyed the company and fellowship of five wonderful people the all of their lives. In 1969 I became an eighteen-year-old father. This wondrous event was repeated in 1971, 1975, 1980, and 1987. One of my sisters had an arrangement with her husband. He would be the parent one day and she the next. I’ve heard folks speak of loving their children but bemoan the fact they’re no longer unattached and single. I don’t understand any of that, have never entertained such.
I’ve screwed a lot of things up across the span of my sixty-four years, made my share of mistakes raising my children. Through the all of it, watching, listening, and sharing with them made life more vivid, gave it a lustrous quality. On dark days my spirit was buoyed, anchored, made calm to rest by the very reality of their existence. My days of epiphany, well, they are my days of epiphany. I have written and sung to them for over forty years, such as what follows:
~magick fingers of love~
“Catch me Daddy! Catch me if you can!” I was always good for the chase. I ran after them, my beautiful boys and girls. With far reaching fingers, I touched the back of their feathery hair. Then, as if by magick, they twisted and turned, caught a burst of speed, and escaped my grasp.
One by one, the magick disappeared as they came of a certain age. My extended fingers filled with air, I caught my breath (the only thing, by the way, I ever did manage to catch). Truly outrun and outmaneuvered, I laughed as if nothing had changed. “Next time!” I declared and, sure enough, next time I’d get a wisp of hair-touching close. Then off they went, under the power of a bit of manufactured magick.
They have all grown now, past the magick of the daddy chase. I sit and wonder when the moment came with each of them, when the daddy magick passed from my fingers into their hair. I sure can’t catch them now, probably never could.
I’ve screwed a lot of things up across the span of my sixty-four years, made my share of mistakes raising my children. Through the all of it, watching, listening, and sharing with them made life more vivid, gave it a lustrous quality. On dark days my spirit was buoyed, anchored, made calm to rest by the very reality of their existence. My days of epiphany, well, they are my days of epiphany. I have written and sung to them for over forty years, such as what follows:
~magick fingers of love~
“Catch me Daddy! Catch me if you can!” I was always good for the chase. I ran after them, my beautiful boys and girls. With far reaching fingers, I touched the back of their feathery hair. Then, as if by magick, they twisted and turned, caught a burst of speed, and escaped my grasp.
One by one, the magick disappeared as they came of a certain age. My extended fingers filled with air, I caught my breath (the only thing, by the way, I ever did manage to catch). Truly outrun and outmaneuvered, I laughed as if nothing had changed. “Next time!” I declared and, sure enough, next time I’d get a wisp of hair-touching close. Then off they went, under the power of a bit of manufactured magick.
They have all grown now, past the magick of the daddy chase. I sit and wonder when the moment came with each of them, when the daddy magick passed from my fingers into their hair. I sure can’t catch them now, probably never could.
~the fatherhood song~
~let me tell you about the choir~
~singing in my heart its sweet messages~
~life songs that support & sustain me~
~those wonderful singers, my children~
~whose voices I heard first cooing and gooing~
~mimicking songs I sang them to sleep~
~lullabies & daddy’s voice whispering~
~tickling their ears when first I learned~
~the fatherhood song~
~I hear them in the rivers of blood~
~coursing through my veins~
~hands over my ears, eyes closed~
~I hear them each & together singing to me~
~Christmases & birthdays, any-days~
~little People loving me large~
~recording themselves on cassette tapes announcing~
~“This is for you, Daddy”~
~what meant so much & more since first I began to sing~
~the fatherhood song~
~I lay me down at night sometimes & find my mother there~
~it’s difficult because she isn’t anywhere but she’s another voice~
~in the choir who encouraged her son to sing~
~shared her voice with my children all those years~
~those long years, Silent Night Holy Night~
~when she finds me, reminds me~
~“We are poor folk, good folk.~
~You are a man of good heart~
~whose children have taught him to sing~
~the fatherhood song.”~
~let me tell you about the choir~
~singing in my heart its sweet messages~
~life songs that support & sustain me~
~those wonderful singers, my children~
~whose voices I heard first cooing and gooing~
~mimicking songs I sang them to sleep~
~lullabies & daddy’s voice whispering~
~tickling their ears when first I learned~
~the fatherhood song~
~I hear them in the rivers of blood~
~coursing through my veins~
~hands over my ears, eyes closed~
~I hear them each & together singing to me~
~Christmases & birthdays, any-days~
~little People loving me large~
~recording themselves on cassette tapes announcing~
~“This is for you, Daddy”~
~what meant so much & more since first I began to sing~
~the fatherhood song~
~I lay me down at night sometimes & find my mother there~
~it’s difficult because she isn’t anywhere but she’s another voice~
~in the choir who encouraged her son to sing~
~shared her voice with my children all those years~
~those long years, Silent Night Holy Night~
~when she finds me, reminds me~
~“We are poor folk, good folk.~
~You are a man of good heart~
~whose children have taught him to sing~
~the fatherhood song.”~
I remember back to what you guys were to me, harken forward to what you are to me. It certainly gives me pause to consider children in daddy’s arms and riding his horsy foot, now with children of your own. Is love a different experience than I imagined, diminished and enhanced by time, deeds done and/or undone? No, though melancholy slips in once in a while, our love, what it was, is what it is.
I was mystified as a younger man, challenged, expectant and satisfied by the task set before me upon the miraculous events of your births. Though a bit uncertain as to how to proceed, this promised to be the good work, what I might dare name love and remain so enamored in its progression. I would hardly notice its evolution, stages and wonder of growth, so engrossed was I in the day-to-day implementation of fatherhood. I remain intimidated by the lessons I had to learn and you had the patience to teach. A man ruminates on his life, his children. Melancholy slips in. I am inclined to give it the boot, help it slip out.
I am mystified as an older man, challenged, expectant and satisfied by the task set before me.
I was mystified as a younger man, challenged, expectant and satisfied by the task set before me upon the miraculous events of your births. Though a bit uncertain as to how to proceed, this promised to be the good work, what I might dare name love and remain so enamored in its progression. I would hardly notice its evolution, stages and wonder of growth, so engrossed was I in the day-to-day implementation of fatherhood. I remain intimidated by the lessons I had to learn and you had the patience to teach. A man ruminates on his life, his children. Melancholy slips in. I am inclined to give it the boot, help it slip out.
I am mystified as an older man, challenged, expectant and satisfied by the task set before me.
~those without graves~
~If I Father~
~eighteen when my first daughter was born~thirty-seven when the fifth child~
~my second son came to join us~those three girls & two boys have had quite a time with me~
~sharing life with them~the single most significant event of my being~has been a prayer~
~the oldest of eight children~searching for a lifeline~I wondered~if I father~
~I have watched each of them sleep~
~tasted the perfect bloom~
~of their sweet child breath~
~thought of myself ~
~as the great protector~
~keeper of precious fragile flames~
~not so much I think~
~as I witness their awakening~
~into the dawn of youth~
~the embrace of young adulthood~
~parenthood~
~I listened to their stories~
~told one to the other and others~
~voices pure and beautiful ~
~as fine silk~
~texture my ears could touch~
~while listening~
~I learned of their suffering~
~that their lives had been staggered~
~by sullen blows of doubt~
~& fear that I~
~their father~
~might come crashing~
~through those doubting walls~
~to discover them~
~in the company of the ghosts~
~of their imperfections~
~eighteen when my first daughter was born~thirty-seven when the fifth child~
~my second son came to join us~those three girls & two boys have had quite a time with me~
~sharing life with them~the single most significant event of my being~has been a prayer~
~the oldest of eight children~searching for a lifeline~I wondered~if I father~
~I have watched each of them sleep~
~tasted the perfect bloom~
~of their sweet child breath~
~thought of myself ~
~as the great protector~
~keeper of precious fragile flames~
~not so much I think~
~as I witness their awakening~
~into the dawn of youth~
~the embrace of young adulthood~
~parenthood~
~I listened to their stories~
~told one to the other and others~
~voices pure and beautiful ~
~as fine silk~
~texture my ears could touch~
~while listening~
~I learned of their suffering~
~that their lives had been staggered~
~by sullen blows of doubt~
~& fear that I~
~their father~
~might come crashing~
~through those doubting walls~
~to discover them~
~in the company of the ghosts~
~of their imperfections~
~in the night~
~voices speak to me~
~the tiny ones of my children~
~who have come to go~
~will always remain with me~
~grown past the child whispers~
~I aspire to hear~
~I answer them~
~in fatherly mumbles~
~tears in my eyes & melancholy~
~for what has passed~
~in my time of living~
~you see they are the protectors~
~of my imperfections~
~I congratulate myself on a job well done~
~because they need me less now ~
~than ever before~
~& never so much as I imagined~
~in my fatherly throes ~
~my attempts to interpret~
~fatherly duties~
~do’s, dues, & don’ts
~a symphony of tiny voices~
~echoes ring down~
~the spiral canyon of my years~
~they speak to me~
~in a perfect symmetry~
~of childhood wisdom~
~they fairly embrace me to stand~
~voices speak to me~
~the tiny ones of my children~
~who have come to go~
~will always remain with me~
~grown past the child whispers~
~I aspire to hear~
~I answer them~
~in fatherly mumbles~
~tears in my eyes & melancholy~
~for what has passed~
~in my time of living~
~you see they are the protectors~
~of my imperfections~
~I congratulate myself on a job well done~
~because they need me less now ~
~than ever before~
~& never so much as I imagined~
~in my fatherly throes ~
~my attempts to interpret~
~fatherly duties~
~do’s, dues, & don’ts
~a symphony of tiny voices~
~echoes ring down~
~the spiral canyon of my years~
~they speak to me~
~in a perfect symmetry~
~of childhood wisdom~
~they fairly embrace me to stand~
~there are those~
~who accuse me of talking to myself~
~they got that right~
~my children are myself~
~the very ones I am addressing~
~ones I have become~
~I may be answering questions~
~from a score of years gone~
~by and by as I watch~
~my daughter with her daughter~
~my oldest son in conversation~
~with his brother~
~twelve years his junior~
~yes daughters & sons~
~with sons & daughters~
~to all of them I say~
~I am your father~
~that is all I am~
~& in that complete~
~you lend me strength~
~make me proud~
~in a most beautiful revelation~
~the knowledge & carriage~
~of our shared imperfections~
~stepping forward through it all~
~embracing & supporting one another~
~you carry me to a place~
~of unconditional devotion~
~love without fear~
~lighting candles~
~in the dark corners of my spirit~
~I am made to be free~
~a man~
~my children have been~
~& remain yet~
~perfect sentinels of my journey~
~If I come to see beyond the shadow~
~If I come to walk into and through the fire~
~If I come to feel~
~to love and be loved~
~If I father~
~who accuse me of talking to myself~
~they got that right~
~my children are myself~
~the very ones I am addressing~
~ones I have become~
~I may be answering questions~
~from a score of years gone~
~by and by as I watch~
~my daughter with her daughter~
~my oldest son in conversation~
~with his brother~
~twelve years his junior~
~yes daughters & sons~
~with sons & daughters~
~to all of them I say~
~I am your father~
~that is all I am~
~& in that complete~
~you lend me strength~
~make me proud~
~in a most beautiful revelation~
~the knowledge & carriage~
~of our shared imperfections~
~stepping forward through it all~
~embracing & supporting one another~
~you carry me to a place~
~of unconditional devotion~
~love without fear~
~lighting candles~
~in the dark corners of my spirit~
~I am made to be free~
~a man~
~my children have been~
~& remain yet~
~perfect sentinels of my journey~
~If I come to see beyond the shadow~
~If I come to walk into and through the fire~
~If I come to feel~
~to love and be loved~
~If I father~
~ I wrote Mother in May 2004 and sent it to Momma for Mother’s Day ~ what turned out to be the last Mother’s Day of her life. A couple of months later she was gone ~ Momma’s Hands was written then ~ I miss her deeply and wish her spirit well ~ Mine will spend the remainder of its life here on earth healing in the light of my children’s love ~
~Mother~
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
She is young in my thoughts, so full of hope she just might burst. That round hard belly, the load she must carry, is part of her. It defies understanding. She must not and does not set it down. Even when it journeys from womb to breast, a cradle her arms make. When it learns to walk her hands take and it walks away but never leaves her. She must not and does not set it down.
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
My load is diminished in the shadow of her courage. I am enlightened to know she is there. Yes, she is just there. She must not and does not set me down.
Read at Wikinut/Link: ~Mother~
~Mother~
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
She is young in my thoughts, so full of hope she just might burst. That round hard belly, the load she must carry, is part of her. It defies understanding. She must not and does not set it down. Even when it journeys from womb to breast, a cradle her arms make. When it learns to walk her hands take and it walks away but never leaves her. She must not and does not set it down.
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
My load is diminished in the shadow of her courage. I am enlightened to know she is there. Yes, she is just there. She must not and does not set me down.
Read at Wikinut/Link: ~Mother~
~Momma’s Hands~
Momma’s hands held mine, patty-cake, tickling my piggies, baby powder soft. “I was raised by sisters in a Catholic orphanage,” she told me. My tiny fists around her fingers, I learned to walk in Momma’s hands. Momma’s hands offered love and solace, fingers pushing Vicks into my nose, rubbing it into my chest, pinning towels tight around a cold that never had a chance, caressed my face, trembled, that I might be tended by, the awesome healing power of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands knew every part of me, my young and broken heart. A cradle they would make that I would be safe and secure beneath their wings, a tender-keep they were. Brothers and sisters, each and all, gathered within the circle of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands birthing and growing, teaching and knowing when to let go, when to shelter and pull away, the wounds of her life made small by the desire to tend to helpless things, danger held at bay and more ‘neath Momma’s hands.
Something fell Momma down. We gathered in ones and twos in the hospital ICU, doctors and nurses understanding, shaking their heads. “I’m so tired,” she said. They lay limp at her side and I cried at the sight of Momma’s hands.
“Where’s the priest?” “Are those the sisters?” she asked my sister. “Are they coming to tell me what they used to tell me... Wake up, little girl, don’t you cry?” Her voice was thin, “I’m not gonna die.” A tear slid down her face, “I’m going home.”
Later, after she has rested, she is much weaker, once proud lips full, no, clouded eyes, the merciful opiate haze of morphine. Oh, you candle spirit, what are we without you? What is life without her?
Time stops. My lips, one last kiss, those hands, whose job is done are finally at rest. I lift them up, one by one. I kiss them goodbye, Momma’s hands.
In loving memory of my Mother, Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
Read at Wikinut/Link: ~Mother~
Momma’s hands held mine, patty-cake, tickling my piggies, baby powder soft. “I was raised by sisters in a Catholic orphanage,” she told me. My tiny fists around her fingers, I learned to walk in Momma’s hands. Momma’s hands offered love and solace, fingers pushing Vicks into my nose, rubbing it into my chest, pinning towels tight around a cold that never had a chance, caressed my face, trembled, that I might be tended by, the awesome healing power of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands knew every part of me, my young and broken heart. A cradle they would make that I would be safe and secure beneath their wings, a tender-keep they were. Brothers and sisters, each and all, gathered within the circle of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands birthing and growing, teaching and knowing when to let go, when to shelter and pull away, the wounds of her life made small by the desire to tend to helpless things, danger held at bay and more ‘neath Momma’s hands.
Something fell Momma down. We gathered in ones and twos in the hospital ICU, doctors and nurses understanding, shaking their heads. “I’m so tired,” she said. They lay limp at her side and I cried at the sight of Momma’s hands.
“Where’s the priest?” “Are those the sisters?” she asked my sister. “Are they coming to tell me what they used to tell me... Wake up, little girl, don’t you cry?” Her voice was thin, “I’m not gonna die.” A tear slid down her face, “I’m going home.”
Later, after she has rested, she is much weaker, once proud lips full, no, clouded eyes, the merciful opiate haze of morphine. Oh, you candle spirit, what are we without you? What is life without her?
Time stops. My lips, one last kiss, those hands, whose job is done are finally at rest. I lift them up, one by one. I kiss them goodbye, Momma’s hands.
In loving memory of my Mother, Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
Read at Wikinut/Link: ~Mother~
~A Tear for the Choir~
Poor; she taught us to be proud
Proud; she taught us to be humble
her example of integrity and individuality
true and pure beyond question or explanation
She asked more of herself
and expected it from others
yet never refused to lend a hand
to lost, world-weary, and hungry souls
be they human or beast
One doesn’t say goodbye to her
She created a space in those she loved
to make them stronger
We are come to say hello to those spaces
to sing their praises
to the extraordinary lady
who never knew how to let us down
but gave of herself and just enough
to make us strong
all who carry her song in our hearts
that we might go on without her
In loving memory of my Mother
Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
Read at Wikinut/Link: ~Mother~
Poor; she taught us to be proud
Proud; she taught us to be humble
her example of integrity and individuality
true and pure beyond question or explanation
She asked more of herself
and expected it from others
yet never refused to lend a hand
to lost, world-weary, and hungry souls
be they human or beast
One doesn’t say goodbye to her
She created a space in those she loved
to make them stronger
We are come to say hello to those spaces
to sing their praises
to the extraordinary lady
who never knew how to let us down
but gave of herself and just enough
to make us strong
all who carry her song in our hearts
that we might go on without her
In loving memory of my Mother
Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
Read at Wikinut/Link: ~Mother~
~She~
Since the beginning of time
frail creatures born unto earth
have required protection and nurturing
a guardian of fierce spirit
and gentle, life-sustaining, mien
one willing to sacrifice its existence
that those in its caring might survive
In caves and trees, square-built houses
a song, a selfsame song, is born
true as wing, bare feet in the grass
a cuddle and coo lullaby
There is conclusive and inclusive evidence
in the eyes of every child
a certainty and confidence
in these frailest of all creatures
life, the guarantee and value of life
assurance of the morrow
the glint and shine of innocence
whose burdens are borne by an other
one whose tentative purchase, the birthing wall
is vouchsafed by god and is gifted with instinct and knowledge
precious secrets, impenetrable shields of protection
Without her body, we are not
within her body, we begin
children, children, we are until
death comes to claim her blood
Stronger than death, her spirit owns
a legion of dreams behind our eyes
to sustain and support us
She is faith, the realization that hope
and a prayer, her womb of life
our only truth at first and last
a cloak she wears and wears it well
Do you know her
Does your hand reach
tremble when she’s not there
Do you hear her
the echo of her voice
a mature mimic of your own
Do you miss her
when you are lonely
and there is no one else who cares
Do you find her
in the face in the mirror
in moments of wild abandon looking back
Do you love her
Do you
Read at Wikinut/Link: ~Mother~
Since the beginning of time
frail creatures born unto earth
have required protection and nurturing
a guardian of fierce spirit
and gentle, life-sustaining, mien
one willing to sacrifice its existence
that those in its caring might survive
In caves and trees, square-built houses
a song, a selfsame song, is born
true as wing, bare feet in the grass
a cuddle and coo lullaby
There is conclusive and inclusive evidence
in the eyes of every child
a certainty and confidence
in these frailest of all creatures
life, the guarantee and value of life
assurance of the morrow
the glint and shine of innocence
whose burdens are borne by an other
one whose tentative purchase, the birthing wall
is vouchsafed by god and is gifted with instinct and knowledge
precious secrets, impenetrable shields of protection
Without her body, we are not
within her body, we begin
children, children, we are until
death comes to claim her blood
Stronger than death, her spirit owns
a legion of dreams behind our eyes
to sustain and support us
She is faith, the realization that hope
and a prayer, her womb of life
our only truth at first and last
a cloak she wears and wears it well
Do you know her
Does your hand reach
tremble when she’s not there
Do you hear her
the echo of her voice
a mature mimic of your own
Do you miss her
when you are lonely
and there is no one else who cares
Do you find her
in the face in the mirror
in moments of wild abandon looking back
Do you love her
Do you
Read at Wikinut/Link: ~Mother~
When This Is Over
His name was Joshua, born in nineteen-eighty-five, named after his uncle who was killed in Viet Nam. He liked girls but was shy. Her name was Mary, the one he wrote to. She answered faithfully, letters that filled him with hope, made him look forward to the day when this is over.
Jimmy was a cocky boy, ever ready to take a dare, celebrated his twenty-second birthday “over there” last year , dated one of the natives, dared to experiment with her religion, knocked the edge off his cockiness, entertained dreams of taking her home, sent pictures to his mom who couldn’t wait to meet her when this is over.
Thomas was a serious young man. From the time he was twelve no one referred to him as a boy. He had his check sent home to his mother and six siblings. He meant to earn his stripes, single-handedly pull his family out of the slums, buy them a house. Proud of his poor boy career choice, he planned to be a soldier’s soldier, even when this is over.
Edward cried every night, caught a lot of flak at first until he proved himself in combat. His tears, after all, were everyone’s tears. He wasn’t ashamed of them, of missing the family and life he left behind, all he could do is weep. Brave in the face of the enemy, he covered his comrades’ backs, laughed and said I’ll stop crying when this is over.
Jack liked to march. A track star in high school a year, a lifetime ago, he welcomed the stiff sweat on his clothes, salt in his eyes, the runner’s burn, third wind. No one could keep up with him. At nineteen, he was first in his unit to kill face to face, hand to hand. He stopped running after that, said I’ll run when this is over.
George Ann was a tough girl, seven brothers and comfortable holding her own in a man’s world, twenty-two and the brightest eyes. She wrote letters for those who couldn’t, arranged friends for those who didn’t have them that they could receive letters, the occasional package from home. Always doing for others, she had a man of her own, wrote to him, I got something for you when this is over.
At thirty-two, Cliff was the old man. His wife and three children sent him pictures and handmade cards, cookies he shared with the youngsters he marched with and slept next to. A career man, he was proud of the recruits, his fellow soldiers. He cried too but no one knew, wore a double locket with four pictures around his neck, said I’ll take it off when this is over.
William was twenty years old, read everything he could get his hands on. He aspired to be a writer, joined up to further his education, to get some real living under his belt, stuff to put in novels to stop wars. He promised his mother in weekly letters he’d be careful and not to worry. Everything will be okay, I got leave soon, I’ll be coming home when this is over.
Johnny liked to fight. On his eighteenth birthday he joined up to avoid going to jail. He could dismantle and reassemble his weapon with his eyes closed just like in the movies. He liked to smoke cigarettes and walk around with his shirt off. Killing didn’t bother him. Maybe I’ll go home and stop killing, he said, when this is over.
Conrad was his father’s son, proud to follow in his steps as a foot soldier. The men in his family had fought in all the country’s wars, distinguished themselves and survived. His picture was foremost on the mantle, arm around his new bride, her loving eyes full of the soldier. Everyone had seen photographs of the son he’d finally get to see when this is over.
I have to stop writing them. They’re beautiful and, in many ways, the same. How we prize them, our American youth in the baby steps of their adult lives. They fill us with love and hope, these promises kept of generation. What courage they display as they fly away and become soldiers, to people our combat forces, fight for principles conceived centuries before they were born and manipulated in the light of a new day, a storm of oil, violence, and money.
Did I say they were, in many ways, the same? They are, indeed, brothers and sisters in death, voices still and hands at rest, asleep in the dawn of their lives, living letters in the hands of family answered quickly and before they knew the awful thing they’ve come to know. Year after year, thousands slain, tell me of the lovers’ hearts, fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters. Children, they ain’t comin’ home when this is over.
His name was Joshua, born in nineteen-eighty-five, named after his uncle who was killed in Viet Nam. He liked girls but was shy. Her name was Mary, the one he wrote to. She answered faithfully, letters that filled him with hope, made him look forward to the day when this is over.
Jimmy was a cocky boy, ever ready to take a dare, celebrated his twenty-second birthday “over there” last year , dated one of the natives, dared to experiment with her religion, knocked the edge off his cockiness, entertained dreams of taking her home, sent pictures to his mom who couldn’t wait to meet her when this is over.
Thomas was a serious young man. From the time he was twelve no one referred to him as a boy. He had his check sent home to his mother and six siblings. He meant to earn his stripes, single-handedly pull his family out of the slums, buy them a house. Proud of his poor boy career choice, he planned to be a soldier’s soldier, even when this is over.
Edward cried every night, caught a lot of flak at first until he proved himself in combat. His tears, after all, were everyone’s tears. He wasn’t ashamed of them, of missing the family and life he left behind, all he could do is weep. Brave in the face of the enemy, he covered his comrades’ backs, laughed and said I’ll stop crying when this is over.
Jack liked to march. A track star in high school a year, a lifetime ago, he welcomed the stiff sweat on his clothes, salt in his eyes, the runner’s burn, third wind. No one could keep up with him. At nineteen, he was first in his unit to kill face to face, hand to hand. He stopped running after that, said I’ll run when this is over.
George Ann was a tough girl, seven brothers and comfortable holding her own in a man’s world, twenty-two and the brightest eyes. She wrote letters for those who couldn’t, arranged friends for those who didn’t have them that they could receive letters, the occasional package from home. Always doing for others, she had a man of her own, wrote to him, I got something for you when this is over.
At thirty-two, Cliff was the old man. His wife and three children sent him pictures and handmade cards, cookies he shared with the youngsters he marched with and slept next to. A career man, he was proud of the recruits, his fellow soldiers. He cried too but no one knew, wore a double locket with four pictures around his neck, said I’ll take it off when this is over.
William was twenty years old, read everything he could get his hands on. He aspired to be a writer, joined up to further his education, to get some real living under his belt, stuff to put in novels to stop wars. He promised his mother in weekly letters he’d be careful and not to worry. Everything will be okay, I got leave soon, I’ll be coming home when this is over.
Johnny liked to fight. On his eighteenth birthday he joined up to avoid going to jail. He could dismantle and reassemble his weapon with his eyes closed just like in the movies. He liked to smoke cigarettes and walk around with his shirt off. Killing didn’t bother him. Maybe I’ll go home and stop killing, he said, when this is over.
Conrad was his father’s son, proud to follow in his steps as a foot soldier. The men in his family had fought in all the country’s wars, distinguished themselves and survived. His picture was foremost on the mantle, arm around his new bride, her loving eyes full of the soldier. Everyone had seen photographs of the son he’d finally get to see when this is over.
I have to stop writing them. They’re beautiful and, in many ways, the same. How we prize them, our American youth in the baby steps of their adult lives. They fill us with love and hope, these promises kept of generation. What courage they display as they fly away and become soldiers, to people our combat forces, fight for principles conceived centuries before they were born and manipulated in the light of a new day, a storm of oil, violence, and money.
Did I say they were, in many ways, the same? They are, indeed, brothers and sisters in death, voices still and hands at rest, asleep in the dawn of their lives, living letters in the hands of family answered quickly and before they knew the awful thing they’ve come to know. Year after year, thousands slain, tell me of the lovers’ hearts, fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters. Children, they ain’t comin’ home when this is over.
Other Places
I spoke to a young man one day who had spent the last year in Iraq soldiering. He was awfully glad to be home, especially since he would get the chance to become acquainted with the son born while he was over there. His wife sent him pictures but he couldn’t bear to look at them (he would never tell her this). He buried the pictures under other papers he kept in a shoebox. He said lots of soldiers do that, unable to come to terms with what they left behind.
I complimented him on his inner strength and resolve as he paid for the $125.00 worth of movies he was purchasing, all new and past new releases he would share with his wife for the first time. There were also a couple of Cd’s, Led Zeppelin’s greatest hits and the best of Hank Williams Junior. I commented on the broad range of his interest in music and he told me the Zeppelin was for himself. He planned to take Hank back to the mid-east to give to his best buddy who liked Country Western. How could he pass it up for $5.99? He said he had a lot of catching up to do and intended to savor every precious moment with his young family because he knew sometime within the next year he’d be sent back to Iraq. “Maybe they’ll get it all under control,” I said hopefully, “Then you could stay here at home and raise your son.”
He looked at me from eyes that had seen much too much, a young face that knew much too much. “There’s the Koreas,” he said sadly and other places I try not to think about. The war thing is like some crazy machine that can’t be stopped.” Time stopped then and he wasn’t with me anymore. He had become a thousand years of man. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a thin painful whisper of gravel, “I’ll be going
back somewhere, if not to Iraq, then to one of those “other places” that are next.”
I shook his hand, told him I appreciated his sacrifice and wished him well. A hundred miles inside me I knew he was right. The machine was rolling, the grinder of war awaiting fresh fodder.
I spoke to a young man one day who had spent the last year in Iraq soldiering. He was awfully glad to be home, especially since he would get the chance to become acquainted with the son born while he was over there. His wife sent him pictures but he couldn’t bear to look at them (he would never tell her this). He buried the pictures under other papers he kept in a shoebox. He said lots of soldiers do that, unable to come to terms with what they left behind.
I complimented him on his inner strength and resolve as he paid for the $125.00 worth of movies he was purchasing, all new and past new releases he would share with his wife for the first time. There were also a couple of Cd’s, Led Zeppelin’s greatest hits and the best of Hank Williams Junior. I commented on the broad range of his interest in music and he told me the Zeppelin was for himself. He planned to take Hank back to the mid-east to give to his best buddy who liked Country Western. How could he pass it up for $5.99? He said he had a lot of catching up to do and intended to savor every precious moment with his young family because he knew sometime within the next year he’d be sent back to Iraq. “Maybe they’ll get it all under control,” I said hopefully, “Then you could stay here at home and raise your son.”
He looked at me from eyes that had seen much too much, a young face that knew much too much. “There’s the Koreas,” he said sadly and other places I try not to think about. The war thing is like some crazy machine that can’t be stopped.” Time stopped then and he wasn’t with me anymore. He had become a thousand years of man. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a thin painful whisper of gravel, “I’ll be going
back somewhere, if not to Iraq, then to one of those “other places” that are next.”
I shook his hand, told him I appreciated his sacrifice and wished him well. A hundred miles inside me I knew he was right. The machine was rolling, the grinder of war awaiting fresh fodder.