Let them flow

Maybe because it's such a small town, the grief
is so magnified. I feel sometimes like I am everyone's
mother. After I dropped my keys on the counter
and put my purse on the table this evening, I threw away
something sitting somewhere (I can't remember what).
The garbage closet is next to the refrigerator.

And there he was, on my refrigerator. In his Army
uniform. His mischievous brown eyes looking back
at me. And I could not stop looking at him, thinking
about his mom, about how much she must every single
day miss him, how often she must think This can't be.
But he just kept looking back at me. I could only keep
staring into his eyes, like I was expecting him to speak.
Two years almost. First Iraqi war casualty (and only that
I know of ) from this town. He was my daughter's friend.
He was my sister's best friend's son. He was here, at this
house, on more than one occasion. He was funny. Smart.
Full of spirit. Now he is this picture on my refrigerator.
And I cried.

And then there is Jake. My daughter's friend for so many
years. Her friend who was so many times almost boyfriend.
Who pissed her off, made her cry, made her laugh hysterically,
who came and went, who had just started calling her again
in those last weeks. Jake, the pillow snake. That's what I called
him. Jake with the deep voice. Jake with the badass attitude.
Jake with the jokes. Jake. Jake who is gone now. Jake
whose loss hurts my heart so deeply that I can't even begin to
imagine what his mother's heart feels.

So, I am crying tonight, thinking about these boys--these young
men who were taken before they got to live so many things.
Knowing that in their short years, they may have lived
in ways I'll only ever dream about. But who should be here!

Oh! I hurt.

May all the powers of healing and good and hope
and faith and truth and acceptance be with their mothers this night.