Christina Sharik, Anthony Pahl, and Robert Wheatley

THE “FAREWELL” TRILOGY

THE NIGHT BEFORE
(for Rod)

We lay in bed that night
listening to Rod McKuen’s records
The Sand, The Sea, the Sky –
he finally fell asleep
and that’s when I began to cry –
All kinds of strange imaginings
passed before my eye
as I listened to the ticking
of the minutes on
the alarm clock going by –

After making love and talking,
he finally slept –
I knew the words he said
would be the ones I always kept
inside my head.
We had a son, a baby
9 months old –
and he slept, too, in his
little baby bed.
Innocent of War.
I knew
that when his father returned,
he wouldn’t remember him anymore.

I played “The Sea” on “low”…
over and over, and then,
suddenly, it was morning
once again –
No matter how I tried to stop it,
the sun rose anyway…
and now it was the “dreaded day”.

Up early, getting dressed
a smile upon my face –
so much to say to each other
and neither was able to speak –
I wanted to scream “Don’t go”
but that would never do –
He played with the baby,
Hide and Seek.

You’ll be hiding, all right, I thought,
too far away to be found –
I thought of all these things to say
and couldn’t utter a sound.

Off to the airport and checked the bags;
regular passengers unknowing
All by himself with a wife
and parents whose fears weren’t showing.

And then… he was gone.
And we went home.
I broke down in the kitchen
and I said to my mom:
“What if he doesn’t come home?”
It’ll be ok, she said –
you have us, and you have your son…
it’ll be ok… she said again, and again.

It was noon, and he’d been gone
since ten.

©Copyright March 25, 2001 by Christina A. Sharik

LAST NIGHT…

The sound of Rod McKuen’s music, The Sand, The Sea, The Sky,
Lulled me off to sleep and in my dreams I heard her cry.
Silent tears and silent sounds of strange imaginings
Blended with the ticking clock and the fear of unknown things.

We made gentle love with a passion and an urgency of life
And emotion numbed the dread of a soldier and his wife.
I told her that I loved her and she’d always be with me
But the despair etched into her face was so very clear to see.

And my eyes slowly opened as I heard our son turn in his crib
He’d be nearly two when I returned; he wouldn’t even know I lived.
And still “The Sea” was playing as I closed my eyes once more
Until the sun rose on the day I was to leave to fight a war.

She was already dressed and watching me with a smile upon her face
And I smiled right back but couldn’t speak; I thought my heart would break.
I wanted to tell her “I won’t go!”, but that was something I could never do
so I played peek-a-boo with my son to hide what we both knew.

Peek-a-boo would soon become a matter of life or death for me
But not a word could I say to her – I could barely breathe.
And I felt like an invisible stranger as I checked in for my flight
Why were Mum and Dad so brave? Did they KNOW I’d be all right?

And the call to board came insistently and I quickly said goodbye.
I hugged Mum and shook Dad’s hand and looked my darling in the eye.
“I’ll be back!” I promised her as I hugged and kissed her one last time.
Then I placed my hand on my son’s head and whispered, “I’ll be fine.”

“Will I see them again?” I asked myself as the numbness left my mind.
“Will they be OK while I’m away?” I asked for the thousandth time
“They’ll be there when I return!” I told myself time and time again,
“But I miss them so; I don’t want to go.” It was noon; I’d been gone since ten…

©Copyright March 25, 2001 by Anthony W. Pahl

BRUISED SOULS AND SPLINTERED LIVES

Curious I think, what we humans go through
Not for what we want, but for “the right thing to do.”
For duty and honor, the things we’ll endure
Deprivation and loneliness, and the horrors of war.

But the tide of war picks up all in its path
And sweeps them away in a firestorm of wrath.
Those who must leave, and those left to wait
Must put trust in God, or in uncaring fate.

The soldier who crouches in fetid swamps
Or walks the perimeter, or guards the bomb dump.
The young nurse who witnesses trauma and death
And holds a man’s hand as he takes his last breath.

The young mother who cradles her newborn child
And sings him to sleep, while her thoughts run wild,
Thinking of one in foreign jungles so green
“Is he still all right – what horrors has he seen?”

The parents who watch their son leave with pride
For a place fraught with danger – their anguish they hide.
The proud father who hugs him and wishes, “God speed!”
The doting mother who kisses him, then goes home to weep.

Like so much flotsam, powerless to resist,
The storm of war drives us all toward the cliffs
Of destruction that wait to splinter our lives
And bruise our souls, even if we survive.

We may pick up the pieces and make a new life;
We may patch up the damage caused by the strife.
But the scars left by war shall always remain,
And all those who live it shall n’er be the same.

©Copyright April 2001 by Robert E. Wheatley