Outside the birds sing,

The doorbell – it rings.

My daughter, again,

With her three little men.

The sigh I let go,

May paint her as my foe,



Yet she is not the source of my fear.





Her boys I used to love,

Now away, I would shove.

It’s the spark in their eyes

That makes the dark rise.

But these feelings I mask.

Treat their care as a task,



I must endure to conquer my fear.





As the two little ones play,

The elder, he strays.

He wanders about,

With that familiar pout.

The crease on his face

For me, holds no grace,



These features are the source of my fear.





It’s the same unruly hair,

Speckled yet fair.

The same olive skin

That marks him as kin.

This child is a hell,

I need to repel.



For here is the source of my fear.





They stay for the night,

Their young voices bright,

Disturbing my peace.

There is no release.

The tears that build up,

Watching those little pups,



Define their presence as the source of my fear.

While the young ones sleep,

I whimper and weep.

My thoughts now blurred,

Gunshots slam through my head,

I see his flesh tear,

I hear his pained cry,

Feel the fear in his eyes,

Flashes of shattered images,

I now am a mirror of fear.





Drawn by my cries,

Or the scent of white lies,

The eldest boy calls.

My name rings through the halls,

The light flicks to life,

He reacts to my strife,



He can’t be the source of my fear.





With a hot cup of tea,

Tensed and ready to flee.

Now the boy wants to know,

The cause of that show.

My lips tremble slightly,

Yet I press on lightly,



I open up to the source of my fear.





First I utter his name,

My husband, my flame,

Before sharing his pain,

The sheer lack of gain.

My words, they flow,

Is this right - I can’t know.



But sharing this obscures my fear.





The words tumble out,

As though quenching a drought.

Fear starts to recede,

Replaced by a greed,

A hunger for the child,

To know it was worthwhile.



The source of my fear wasn’t this child at all.



The boy’s face brightens,

He imagines those titans

In a different way than I,

But close enough,

To ask



“Why?”



I place my palm on his chest,

Tell him to feel blessed.

“He did it all for you”



He smiles, “and you too.”





And so I share my tales of life and of death and of waiting.

And somehow,

Through the hours of hurt,

Through the decades of denial,

I find comfort in these words.

I find comfort in his smile.





I find comfort in the almost tangible connection,

Between him,

And

His grandfather.









The shadows and silence still threaten me,

But the boy has gifted me remedy,

And so the words form,

Lift and fall in my ears,

Melody stained with memory.







As the breath in my lungs,

Is a gift from my husband,



The words on my tongue

Are a gift to my grandson.