Lydia Aswolf

Birds gliding gracefully.

Floating freely on the current.

Swimming their strokes across the air.

That’s what I thought of.

Until I looked closer.

Saw a different view.

I watched as the wind.

Tried to unseat her.

Shake her free.

But she hung on.

Found refuge.

Any port in a storm.

She chose me.

And while I could not cling to her.

I could do something.

I could shield her.

From the roaring winds.

She was…

So small and so delicate.

Gossamer wings.

Dainty proboscis.

Gently tapping over my skin.

I had only sweat to give her.

But my sweat is what she drank.

And when she had her fill.

When she’d had enough.

She allowed the wind take hold of her.

Let it carry her away.

And I saw then.

That the wind was not her enemy.

It was her friend.

I am earthbound.

I know only earthbound ways.

When the winds come.

When trees shake and my children tremble.

I do not trust the wind.

In those moments, it is my enemy.

And yet, there came a butterfly.

To teach me about the wind.

It unseats us all.

Tear away all that is nonessential.

Move us forward.

Always forward.

For  this, I am grateful

No wind is of service.

To those that are bound for nowhere.

He was a soldier in his life before.

Before time slowed.

Before the cataracts came.

Before he measured time in…

Meals.

Naps.

Faces he knew.

Faces he didn’t.

Always angry, they said.

He won’t listen.

He doesn’t care.

I disagreed.

I liked Sarge.

Admired his many tattoos.

From the old days.

His service days.

I learned what he had endured.

What he’d seen.

All that he had done for God and country.

Time.

I had too little of it.

Sarge had too much.

We tried for a happy medium.

Sarge and I.

Sixteen hours a day, two days a week.

It was all the time I had to give.

We made of it what we could.

My colleagues disliked Sarge.

He wouldn’t cooperate.

Time was to blame.

They had too little.

And he…

He just wanted someone to listen.

To see him again.

I was happy to listen and to see.

To learn about a life I’d never live.

My colleagues just wanted Sarge to get with the program.

Dance to their tune.

He refused.

Sarge hurt someone one day.

Tore the tendons in their wrist like paper.

Sent them screaming out of his room.

Running away.

Leaving him behind.

Despite his cataracts.

Sarge could see well enough.

It was what they refused to see he had a problem with.

He was more than a medical chart.

They treated him like less than a man.

I heard about it after the fact.

I only saw Sarge once after that.

Before he was transferred away.

And because I liked him.

Because I liked them.

I was caught in the middle.

It was the cataracts I thought of then.

And the cataracts I think of now.

Cataracts don’t blind.

They cloud.

Had my colleagues removed theirs.

Had Sarge tried to see beyond his.

The clouds might have departed.

Calm skies appeared.

And maybe…

Maybe they would have played a little tune.

They could have seen one another at last.

They could have danced.

He darted forward with no restraint.

Not knowing, I suppose.

That restraint is usually best.

The illusion held for a moment.

And the pitiful human before him trembled a little.

It was the beauty, you see.

Beauty and sudden terror.

I had been standing there.

Watching nothing and everything at the same time.

When he appeared.

The vivid purple flower on my shirt drew him.

I did not see his approach.

He hung for a moment.

Examining me.

And I was so sure.

So sure.

I had failed his exam.

Until he darted forward.

Gently.

Tentatively.

Tapping my shirt with his beak.

He meant no harm.

Neither did I.

All terror left me.

Only wonder remained.

Wonder at such fleeting beauty.

Beauty is always transitory.

That’s what makes us remember it.

Sometimes, we forget.

In troubled times.

Terrible times.

So beauty will ambush us from time to time.

Remind us that it is there.

That we still have wonder buried deeply inside of us.

We can show and be shown compassion.

We do care.

We can love.

I have said before.

That the worst thing about wonder is that it wears off.

But I am wrong.

The world will not allow wonder to wear out.

It reminds us in the worst of times.

That there are better times.

Beautiful times.

Sometimes we see them.

Sometimes we create them.

And sometimes.

Sometimes, we are them.

A brutal attack.

A lone soldier.

A good husband.

Father of a two year old son.

He didn’t make it.

And I know.

On the day that he died.

He was looking forward to getting back.

To his home.

To family.

On Memorial Day.

It is him I will think of.

Him and…

All those others.

Men and women all over the world.

Who fight for what they deem right.

They have only their lives to give.

And give them they do.

I will think of his wife.

And his son.

And there will be.

A moment of silence.

For the soldiers.

And all their families.

They sacrifice, too.

For their soldiers who serve.

Without their bravery.

And their courage to let go.

Where would we be?

Oh, how I wish.

I wish that things were different.

That peace would last.

That our brothers and sisters.

Would not have to take up their arms.

It helps a little.

Just a little.

To know that.

Wherever our soldier is.

He is surrounded by his brothers and sisters.

Those who fell before him.

Who fought the good fight.

Who gave the only thing they had to give.

So that their loved ones might live.

They will comfort him now.

And we will live.

And live well.

Knowing that for those they love.

Our soldiers will sacrifice.

Children were laughing and learning.

The day the sirens called.

And there were wise eyes, so discerning.

Who calmly moved them through the hall.

The sirens wailed and shepherds vowed.

To mind the flock they led.

Despite the whirling, maddened clouds.

Down the halls they sped.

A great train was heard that day.

Came roaring through the sky.

And now we have to face the grey.

No rhyme nor reason why.

Our shepherds were the teachers.

Brave, kind, and true.

While their charges cowered.

They vowed to see them through.

And see them through they did, although.

They couldn’t save them all.

Their bodies were all they had to use.

To form protective walls.

I’m thankful for the children saved.

And so sad for those we lost.

But I’ll try to find some comfort.

Try not to count the cost.

One thing I know is certain.

They held the children ’til the last.

They did not shake or shudder.

They held the children fast.

Rescuers went to look today.

Through the ruins they’ll roam.

Hoping for a cry, a call.

The faint sound of a groan.

Meanwhile, I think of teachers.

Their bravery and their love.

Of all the ways they found to save.

Below and above.

It’s their courage I admire.

They, the first to roam.

They are heroes to whom we owe our thanks.

For leading their students home.

Mr. Rose.

That is what I’ll call him.

I don’t remember his name for a reason.

I was new.

I was nervous.

My first job in a hospital.

I wanted to do well.

And to ensure I did, a trainer was appointed to watch me.

That was how I met Mr. Rose.

Awkward situation for us both.

He was used to caring for himself.

I was used to caring for others.

Eyes were on us both.

My eyes on him.

Other eyes on me.

Such dignity.

That’s what I remember.

It couldn’t have been easy.

A stranger greets you.

Brushes your teeth.

Shaves you.

Bathes you.

His sense of humor.

I remember that, too.

We joked back and forth.

Eased those tensions.

The tensions that arise.

When a stranger does for you.

What you can no longer do for yourself.

I left with a noticeable lift in my step.

The other set of eyes had watched.

Commented.

Approved.

But Mr. Rose was more important.

His sweetness.

As sweetness so often does.

Had lightened my step.

Lifted my heart.

I looked in on Mr. Rose as often as I could that day.

We joked every time.

The next day his room was the first I visited.

I was bringing him his breakfast.

But Mr. Rose…

Mr. Rose was no longer there.

Only an empty shell remained.

One day was all I had with Mr. Rose.

One day.

It wasn’t enough.

But it had to be.

The quality of a thing.

Is vastly more important than the quantity.

I moved onto other patients.

You’ve read about them here.

Their names you know.

His, I don’t.

And so he is Mr. Rose.

A man who by any other name.

Would still be as sweet.

Our sailor set sail near a monster.

He couldn’t comprehend her.

She was too big.

A mountain against the clear blue sky.

And I wonder.

I wonder if he even suspected.

That she could annihilate him without a care.

Forget him afterward.

But this mountain didn’t.

She stepped aside.

Permitted his passage.

Looked on as he sailed away.

What is one life?

One small soul.

One great mercy.

Mercy.

A gift given to few.

Comprehended by less.

This monster was merciful.

She was me.

The spider dropped down beside me suddenly.

Prepared to cast off.

A sailor weaving his own sail.

So serene a scene.

And for a moment.

Just a moment.

My mouth caked with envy.

It was…

The ease of his passage.

I coveted his untroubled crossing.

And when my envious moment passed.

When he reached his destination safely.

I understood more than I had when he set sail.

It is a simple thing.

To covet.

So easy to envy.

So hard to understand that…

No passage is easy.

On this day, the wind was with the spider.

Tomorrow, it might not be.

Perhaps Nietzshe said it best.

Whoever fights monsters.

Should see to it in the process that she does not become a monster.

The spider looked into the abyss for a moment.

A moment before he leaped.

And the abyss looked into him.

Mercy was thus given.

And thus accepted.

We both sailed free.

That smell.

I would know it anywhere.

The smell of books.

Salvation in silence.

Words in books.

So much kinder than any I’d heard.

I remember.

Seven years old.

I used the library bathroom.

Stared at the sloped ceiling on the second floor.

I wanted to live there.

To move in and leave it all behind me.

To leave them behind me.

No one would hurt me at the library.

They couldn’t call me a slut.

A dirty whore.

Seven years of age and I had been schooled.

In the wise, sly ways my parents used.

To avoid marks.

Bruises might mean less government money.

Burns meant recovery time.

Broken bones, a halt to forced labor.

It was an education of sorts.

But the library.

All those books.

Such a revelation.

Of what life could be.

What it was supposed to be.

And finally.

Finally, I was good at something.

I read the most books.

The hardest ones.

I didn’t do it for the McDonald’s Happy Meals I earned.

Though I was often hungry.

I did it to escape.

To become.

Something other than what I had seen.

Anything other than what I’d known so far.

I hid behind my stack of books.

Built a library in my head.

They could never touch me there.

And I learned, slowly but surely.

That the best stories are about little girls lost.

They walk through hell, but you can count on them.

They always find their way.

All she wanted was for the storm to end.

Pass her by.

A little bit of sunshine.

To light her darkened path.

Not much to ask for.

And yet, sometimes it is.

Lightning crashed and thunder roared.

Onward she plunged.

Forward was the only direction she could go.

Retracing her steps was not an option.

The past could not help her.

She could only focus on the present.

Hope for the future.

She forged ahead.

And as she floundered.

The seconds passed like decades.

Minutes spanned centuries.

The storm worsened.

This has to be the peak.

I can’t help but believe she thought that.

If I can get through this.

Get to safety.

I can rest.

Oh, to rest.

Rest is not a gift given freely to us.

It is a privilege.

Not our right.

She hadn’t earned it yet.

So close and still so far.

Perhaps she thought that too.

Most of us do.

When the storms hit.

Her struggle was no different from ours.

Shorter, yes.

But no less significant.

Eventually, she made it.

I doubt she sighed in relief.

But I did.

No more than five minutes had passed.

This, too, is life.

The storms come.

The damage occurs quickly.

We salvage what we can from the debris.

And then…

Then.

We can only move forward.

We hope for our futures, too.

Thus, the moth becomes a lesson.

Unremarkably brown.

So very small.

And yet so very large.

Set against the backdrop of rain drops thundering around her.

The safety of a tree beckoned.

But she had to get through the wet first.

As do we all.

She made it.

So will we.

On what seem to be increasingly frequent occasions.

Wild things walk among us.

They wear our faces.

And this time…

This time, they used bombs.

Bombs set off in Boston, Massachusetts.

Two of them.

Placed precisely to do the maximum amount of damage.

There were deaths.

There was running.

And those who could no longer run.

They screamed.

But not for long.

Rescuers came.

Lifted them from the bloody ground.

They carried them anywhere.

Anywhere safe.

Risking their own lives in the process.

And now, details are flying in.

So is support.

For our grievously injured.

Flowers are laid in memorial for those we lost.

But they are not really lost.

For they are ours.

Never forgotten.

We know that justice will be done.

But there is still fear.

So much fear of the wild things among us.

They fight to kill.

Flee justice.

Die trying to kill more.

We will not forget where the wild things were.

We never do.

Where we go from here.

What we do in the here and now.

Will be what we have always done.

Some will fall.

But others will be there to lift them up.

Wild things mean to trip us up.

They mean to watch us drop.

But we will never falter.

United we will stand.