by James Tombe
Two pairs of boots sit next to each other in the sand.
A rifle, vertical, accompanies each pair of boots,
A helmet adorning the top of each rifle.
The soldiers, formed neatly into rows and columns,
Stare silently into the distance.
One by one, their names are called.
Each replies,
With a sigh and a shuffle, she makes her
way through the short, clipped grass,
Arthritic hands clutching flowers.
Breezes hold aloft strands of hair
that grow lighter with each cycle of seasons.
Grey eyes wander, but her aching feet know
where to go.
The lines around her eyes are a map
of the life she's lead.
There's one for each of her four children,
one for an ex-husband;
Like living Braille,
they hold a record of her struggle,
her pains,
and her loss.
Her eyes refocus as her feet stop at their destination.
She kneels down as if at prayer,
her shrine a simple black rectangle of stone.
She starts her prayer with,
"Hi, mom. I've missed you."
© April 17, 2004
The places we vacationed
always had depressing names:
Oxbow Park
Old Maid Flats
Considering the cargo my father carried
upon his rounded shoulders
(Vietnam,
my grandfather's angry hands,
Four kids,
an unhappy wife,
and a mistress)
I wonder if the weight felt like being
pushed into the adamant dirt.
I wonder if he goes back over
the route of his existence
and checks it for loose stones.
When he holds the photograph
of a tow-headed four-year-old
wearing
a cowboy hat
six-shooters
and a Magic Marker mustache
Does he ask himself,
"Did I stumble here?
Was this a hole I forgot to fill in?"
Sometimes
even though you have all the pieces
the picture remains incomplete.
© 2007