I am your mirror, Sad Mother,
A reflection of wet cheeks and tearing eyes
Each glint, another pain circling
Every breath ~~ held for a ringing phone
A casual email, a dust stained envelop filled with handwritten days Gone now~ Memories your ghost to nourish
Your young hero has settled to claim his land, in Arlington Sung to eternal sleep with careless strangers using tricky explosives
Sardine compacted sit tightly, glass thick for bullet kiss refract
The underbelly an easy target pierced ~
Your flag covered boy comes home
That sweet voice an angel's ear he now fills
The tones replayed from last year's family reunions or bygone birthdays, or
Family outings memories live, laughing in yesterday~
You remind yourself that this is real…
He will not ever again say your name
“Momma” – again, with his dimpled smile
This steely facts ~ringing~ that the coffin holds
The child nursed your milk
Years ago, on sleepless night
HE IS SPENT
Reminders shine around you in their glimmering frames
They repeat to you that
Your heart is
No longer beating
NOT living now
Your piece of heaven is revoked~~ withdrawn
You hold a scrape of paper he wrote you last close to your heart
You Call on God to give you eyes to understand~ and Faith
As black dresses you, time comes to sink your angel's bones in fertile soil
You stare at the stone.
THAT NAME. HIS name.
His name you taught him to write
Your Memory flashes of his small hand guided under your own…
Old kitchen table His name and laughter echo around you,
Tender Memory, in your spinning world
Life dreams like a nightmare that does not wake, but keeps you
In dark folds with the heavy
Knitted disbelief and sadness that drapes your shoulders
Your mind collects things never He WIll NEVER accomplished~
He will never…
See his child to school~
Teach his child how to play basketball
He will never see any grandchild's infant hands
He will never again… touch his wife's shining face
He will never hold you again
Or send a stupid card On Mother's Day.
He will never have another chapter in his story new again.
He is now a completed tale
He is something to be shared, over and over, with those whose
Face will be known by a picture
SUCH An important ghost!
Those he lived for, and with
~~ A hero~~
Just A number, statistic
He was yours,
Your Golden Boy, this strapping Troop
Born from love and blood, and raised by lessons you taught
Grown into a man by YOUR tender hand or your stern brow~ all your tucks into bed
Flashing Memories dance in your teary eyes
Sharp, they cut to future winter's months where
Santa Clause stockings have names
The empty nest scuttles with his many images, ghosted and wispy,
By the tree,
Open presents and remembering him breaking
New Year with sloppy kisses
Time will break your heart as you age without him
You wipe away your sea foam eyes and look through his memory books~~
Little hand prints made years ago~~
Alone with his childhood, you mourn, ~ endless
Years pass silent onto others; you feel the drain
Many will follow your child passing into the same divide of void
The smell of fresh dirt, funerals, and flowers
Will lock into your nostril reminders of the bittersweet gatherings
Words spoken, graveside, shaking, cracking, send off to heaven's down range'
Leaving twisted bloodline and tragedy wallpapers the households
It Blankets those who smile at his name,
Reminisce how he loved football,
How he wore those terrible jeans ill-fitting, ragged, to your dismay!
Days will fall into each other, minutes crawl on skinned knees through glass
You will Befriend others whose blood spilled dead on the same day, same war, same IED
You nourish contact to faceless souls and
A memorandum you make
To KEEP ALIVE MEMORY of your hero boy!
He the LEADER, He the Hero, He the Fallen!
How he embraced his duty and faced fear with gritted teeth and bare handed
Everyday Pictures and memories decorate pages of Legacy.com, Online Memorial You make lovingly
Your Heartfelt words you speak to HIM…
Your voice, a message, to
HE who reads no longer,
Cyberbook is full of conversations to
I stumble on your pages.
Ashamed, I feel I trespass your private conversation.
But I am drawn in,
I read your soft sentences speaking to his phantom
It is Crushing chest, twisting and bottomless,
My emotions stretch out for you
I see the pictures posted of your young man and the years, strung like beads
First, his face baby round and drooling teething smile,
A 3rd grade's bad haircut, discolored t-shirt
Finger-painted treasure holding his prize in middle school
His senior pictured, capped and handsome!
Beaming, You beside him!
Him, a young wife beautiful, with a blue bundle in hand
Your grandson dancing with Dad
His uniform pristine ribboned and metaled
The beret cocked proud on short hair
The tags crimson and crisp!
Tricolor background patriotic behind his serious face
Which is glittered sharp
His Expression is humble about his glory
The Final portrait flashed of your ascended seraph
Now, an Empty seat family table is the unspoken aftermath to be replicated~
A stasis existence on holidays and
Inside my head, I see that vacancy in your damaged household
My Rivers of tears salt on my lips as I sign your
Dedication to your long gone son….
I Embrace you though you are unfamiliar and unknown to me
You, Mother to the absent, mother to the one taken
Violence ventured from Ramadi when they thieved your son!
Maneuvers failed and you are left without
Like exposed raw nerve, the fiery emotion flames and simmered,
Conversations with your wide eyed boy-turned-man go unheard by HIM
And I have No reply
ENOUGH for his
Brave sacrifice, his gift priceless
He Faced fears and did triumphant but to an ultimate cost
His Soul lingers to caress the shattered that he was choice-less to depart
Unspoken, I promise
He WILL be remembered!
Sweet, Tragic Mother, who holds only air in your aching arms,
His name is burnt in my mind, carved deeply
I have no comfort, no magic, to return what is no longer here
I am merely a Grateful, thankful, stranger
I am a Melancholic Sister
Who has felt YOUR words and
Stare at my own words as
I Try to comfort
I'm sorry, so very sorry
….-There are NO words enough-…
Thank you & Bless your heart.
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Michael Robert Patterson was born in Arlington and is the son of a former officer of the US Army. So it was no wonder that sooner or later his interests drew him to American history and especially to American military history. Many of his articles can be found on renowned portals like the New York Times, Washingtonpost or Wikipedia.
Reviewed by: Michael Howard