After The War
If I could write I would write aboutwhen the war endedI would record howwe threw our ration cards into the airand danced into the nighthugging one another I would marvelusing superlatives to describeLittle things likeSpring lambs gambolling in the fieldsThe song of crystalline Castalian watersgurgling over ancient stones I'd tell ofpulling out sheer silk stockingsand my golden organza ball gownto wear at the celebratory ballof waltzing with my one true loveto the sounds ofHorrie Dargie's Rag Time Band MaybeAfter the war I will write. I wrote this piece about what would happen, after the war, when Darryl was battling cancer. He never did win that battle. On January 19th it will be three years since his death and I still seem to be waiting for the end of the war, wondering when peace will be declared, when I can gown up, nestle in his arms and do that celebratory waltz. Death liberated Darryl from his ravaged body and I would not wish that he suffer any more. It is me that has been left fighting another war. The battle with loss and grief has been quite extraordinary. Nothing could have prepared me for the intensity of it all. I like to think I am winning but some days I am not sure how successful I have been. When will peace come? When do I get to put on my silk stockings and dance with my one true love?
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yes it was a war wasn,t it,and Frank lost his battle as well.l can honestly say l don,t know that many people who do win the battle against cancer.l have known and lost so many relatives and friends to it,it just goes on and on.
When Frank died,l said to him,you are free now,free from all the pain and suffering,you are liberated.
Somedays l think l,m winning,other days,l,m just a shadow of who l was.
We all need peace
Alice xxxx
Your beautiful poem touches me at a very deep level. It was a brutal war wasn\'t it? I remember all the all the other fellow combatants. I see them at night when I close my eyes. I remember the young man in the bed next to my husband when the doctor came and told him he was dying. There was no one there to hold him as he cried. I remember the faces of the children and the desperate hope in the faces of their parents. I remember the look on my daughters face when she said we lost.
Hold on to that poem and the all love and hope that you poured into it. It will come true one day in heaven. You will dance.