News has come. We are moving. Time, location, events, moving, always moving. The war makes orphans of us all as we shuffle to our next temporary home. But it has always been this way, our unit like a barge on the river, stopping only long enough to take on supplies, then again we flow with the current of that distant thunder. Only this time is not the same. This place, this hamlet of mud and muck and slush and endless snowfall as the fall of our boys as the white and red of our crosses, this place is where he fell, where his eyes last saw light, where my arms last held his weight. This is the news. That I must leave this place, known only to me, my secret religion, a ground sacred to no one, save myself; and I am all but lost.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
1944 (news)
News has come. We are moving. Time, location, events, moving, always moving. The war makes orphans of us all as we shuffle to our next temporary home. But it has always been this way, our unit like a barge on the river, stopping only long enough to take on supplies, then again we flow with the current of that distant thunder. Only this time is not the same. This place, this hamlet of mud and muck and slush and endless snowfall as the fall of our boys as the white and red of our crosses, this place is where he fell, where his eyes last saw light, where my arms last held his weight. This is the news. That I must leave this place, known only to me, my secret religion, a ground sacred to no one, save myself; and I am all but lost.
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4 comments:
and I am all but lost...
:) Sue
then come with me and we can be lost together . . .
There have been posts, where long before there have been hints, when there have only been pronouns, one has known even when those particular people had not been seen in some time, who they were. Wondrous is your instinctive gift for tapping into feeling, mood, there is no rise or fall, no build-up, your writing lives and breathes conclusively from first word to last. Never vying, never less than entire. Nobody communicates as profitably so to speak. The war makes orphans of us all. Your words become a part of everyone who reads them.
Ms Storm, if tears were as jewels, I would shower you with riches for the joy you give me.
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