The War Zone of My Life
for Aidan in row 5
At the edge of the sky, there is a crimson slash
seen through the leafy scrolling of trees that soldier
the perimeter of the lake. Overhead there is only
gray, as in the war zone of my heart where there have
been far too many casualties. Lamplight in a window,
abruptly extinguished, takes out what illuminated
a mid-November Crepe Myrtle, aflame with
leaves destined to fall; yet, it rises regally red
in royal transformation, before the dark comes. Then,
with no preamble, a carnelian blush spreads
the clouds as if punctured with a pin. There is always
the unexpected. So, Take heart. "Be of good cheer,"
parting words from my dying friend, Cyndy, from her
hospital bed. "Be there when I come," I reply.
Even so these days, I cannot stop grieving for the lost
and missing. At noon Mass on Sundays, a boy, four or five,
heavy glasses dominating a small face beneath a luxurious
crown of curls--the image of my dark haired, sweet-armful child
of the past--sits on the floor in safety between his parents'
chairs. He's busy with his books and toys, until he's told
it's time to go to the priest at the altar, and they
help him to his feet. Come, he will, but not alone--
clasping in his two hands his necessary companions:
soldiers, centurions perhaps, the protection of a Praetorian
Guard; talismans and amulets, with which he would not
part. As for myself, I have none of these, not of plaster,
not of flesh, but if I could hold this boy in my arms,
I believe he would heal my heart
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2014
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