A Mother’s War
I thought you all might enjoy this Sestina written by a military mom. Have a wonderful weekend, and check back for your dose of good news from Iraq.
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I recall days of childhood play in gritty, pail and shovel filled boxes of sand.
I remember many nights of quest and conquer of dragons whose only breath was fire,
I reminisce the days of boyhood fun when tents littered the backyard, and boys
Chewed their jaws tired on stale candy and S’mores they proudly made all on their own.
Bikes were piled carelessly as corpses on the lawn as plots of cops and robbers were drawn,
Many early mornings were met with eyes sealed tightly in exhaustion from a night of no sleep.
Younger boy days are filled with too much verve and vim to bother with sleep,
And unjust in the life of boys is it for their eyes to close shut from the sand.
Even in restless slumber they dream heartily of swords that are fiercely drawn,
And at the tip of the sword is always pinned the dragon who threatens with fire.
Young and strong are the legs of boys when they proudly stand on their own.
We become fugitives of fantasy when men are framed from the faded play of boys.
It’s an unspoken and sad intention of mothers to keep their men as young boys,
But to her own grief time steals him quickly away with each passing night of sleep.
It’s not the loneliness ahead or the work she fears, but the fear of the world he will own.
She knows well that dragons do live in a far off land whose borders are enclosed with sand.
These dragons of might and of steel encased power do actually breathe real fire,
And for his noble sword he will be given an arm that rains down a shard of hell as it is drawn.
She can not imagine beyond his days when with chalk and with crayon his world is drawn.
But soon the real world bleeds through the vagary of play and it seeks to take her boys.
Are there days of rest beyond childhood, for mother or son alike? Do they both feel the fire?
Are there days of rest when adulthood settles in, and no longer are her nights full of sleep?
Are there days of rest when his duty calls him away, and his face is coated daily in the sand?
Their lives are different. Their lives are intertwined with love, grief, fear and pride; each of his own.
Each day the sun rises for one as it sets for the other. Both feeling pain of the other and their own.
Often they wonder when the end will come, and if with the pen of fate will a happy end be drawn.
In those months much living is done, and bleeding and dying too; much grief mingled with ancient sand.
The sandbox has changed and the animals too, the games are not those played as boys.
The consequences deep, the cost is not possible to pay for those in the permanent sleep.
Will we at home who fight the fight here, ever really know the immense heat of their fire?
I don’t dream much these days, but when I do I have a sweet dream with a distant fire.
I dream a memory of a safe and sweet time. I hold the memory of your little boy face as my own.
I dream of a time of safety and sweetness for you once again, and I pray for you sweet sleep.
I know the days do not wind down easily in the time of late. It‘s in these days, with weapons drawn,
That our guard is not put down. I dream of a day for you to sleep the sweet sleep of boys,
And that your eyes will be heavy from a day of hope and work and not wearied by that sand.
As you sleep, I pray that within your heart the glow remains of a fire.
That sandboxes of youth and not of war are contained within and the memory you own.
It is not our day to be drawn within the grief that robs us of hope and life, and robs us of our boy.
Hugs. Yep. I’ll save that one. Thanks Claire :)