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War Crimes

 

It wasn't much but he called it home,

one room in an old run down country motel.

I met him when he worked as a bartender,

and began listening to the stories he would tell.

 

He was a quiet man just most of the time,

except when the bar was hopping with life,

He'd readily toast any chance he got,

No, he didn't have a wife.

 

He was married once, he said that was enough,

she had left him upon his return from the war,

When he managed to make it home all in one piece,

he found his belongings beside the front door.

 

Instead of begging for understanding,

he just picked them up and was gone,

He then awaited for the divorce to be over,

while drowning his sorrows and listening to Country songs.

 

There was something in his eyes, that was soft and gentle,

but his face was rough and worn,

His hands shook and he walked with a limp,

and his heart had obviously been torn.

 

It took a long time before we really became friends,

trust was something he just couldn't do,

But finally I made him see that judging him I did not,

I was sincere when I said I was sorry for what he went through.

 

I remember so clearly the first time,

I saw the inside of that musty old room,

It smelled of stale beer and was yellow with used nicotine,

it like his memories was filled with gloom.

 

There beside his bed was a stack of crumpled papers,

letters from his wife so long ago,

Vowing her love and promises to wait,

and photos of a son he never had a chance to see grow.

 

He had left the room but when he came back in,

and saw me with the photo of his son,

His eyes began to fill with tears,

for he knew that I was stunned.

 

He said he was born after he'd left for war,

and the sparkle in his eye he never saw,

That he had died of crib death,

early the very next Fall.

 

I began to cry and so did he,

when he said nothing about his life I got to share,

not his birth nor even a bath,

he never even knew I cared.

 

I then realized as I watched him grieve,

that these were the first tears he'd cried,

The first time he'd allowed himself to face,

the sorrow of a child that had long since died.

 

He reached in his wallet and handed me an address,

he said is it possible you could take me there,

You see I've never once even visited his grave,

it was something I just didn't think I could bear.

 

Now a few years ago my friend passed away,

but for him I didn't feel the need to cry,

For I'm quite sure he now holds his son,

and can now see the sparkle in his eye.

 

War steals many things from the humanity of life,

feelings and times that can never be replaced,

Often the very beat of a heart,

even pain one can't bear to face.

 

By Lisa Hilbers

06/17/2003

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