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