Silence tends to make me fear rejection.
It’s an old female fear,
as old as an unanswered smoke signal,
the irrational belief that somewhere in the empty sky
a man is angry
instead of simply out of firewood.
But this is a different silence,
silence in a darker sky.
Today is another day without word
and there is a breath that is not breathing,
a heart that is still,
a subtle self on hold.
Last week I trusted he was safe.
I came home to four emails,
news that they were nearly finished,
heading back to Bahrain,
stateside by June,
that I could write back now, and should,
and send poems and stories.
I had heard how vital mail is in a war zone,
the tie to home,
the boost to morale.
I sent three stories, two poems, a letter and two notes.
Then silence descended like night.
Thursday morning I woke to a New York Times article
on the number of soldiers who have died since the war ended,
from both incident . . . and accident.
So many were heading home.
Wild fear is naked silence.
The ears go first
the blocking of sound and thought,
the ocean pounding of the heart, drowning out everything.
It pushes at your back like wind
while you do dishes, call friends and clients,
make the bed, scrub the floor.
I have talked myself through statistics.
How many people die in accidents at home every month?
How many happen to be soldiers?
I talk myself through faith.
If it is his time,
if this is the full measure of his life,
he doesn’t have to be in a war zone.
I know this.
It doesn’t matter.
This is old stuff, wet and earthy.
This is the cellular memory of women,
the fear of men and dirt,
of the earth taking them back.
Friday night, another article.
Three more deaths in central Iraq, a total of ten this week.
The words swim across my computer screen:
this week.
But he was in Kuwait, heading to Bahrain.
It doesn’t matter.
In the silence, orders change.
People are dying.
Families are grieving.
Love didn’t protect them.
Or prayers.
And I can’t help feeling this —
though I don’t know why, or why now.
I wasn’t this scared when he left,
when he arrived in Iraq,
not even when he was near Baghdad.
But here it is: the ancient path of women,
to worry and pray and wait.
Sunday morning, another headline: Names of the Dead.
I looked at the screen for a long time,
wondering if I should click on it
or call someone to do it for me.
Reason would not have him there.
But fear is not reasonable.
Love is not reasonable.
Nor is war.
Or life.
Or most of what changes us.
I closed my eyes and prayed
Dear God,
Bless all of them.
Bless their families
Let them find comfort in their grief
And let him come home safely.
I said it two or three times before I clicked,
whispering
aware of how many people (how many women) were whispering the same.
He wasn’t there. But ten still were.
It was a tempered relief, like the pouring off of Passover wine.
How can we drink a full cup?
That night I looked for an old photo, one of the few I have.
It’s 1989. He’s in Italy or Greece, vamping
behind the headless, armless bust of a Roman statue,
arms as outstretched as his grin.
I took it upstairs and placed it on my altar.
There was resistance to the gesture.
The cliché of it, the drama.
But there are things that we do, the heart requires them,
and this was one.
I propped it against a triptych I bought on the Via Appia,
a small Madonna and child.
“I put him in the hands of the mothers,” I told her,
and also called on his and mine.
“Bring him home safe.”
The day he left I put him in the hands of God.
This moment was woman’s work
© Deborah Edler Brown 2003
First published in Sisters Singing: Blessings, Prayers, Art, Songs, Poetry & Sacred Stories by Women (CA: Wild Girl Publishing, 2009)
Oh, Deborah! This is just beautiful! And heartbreaking. And beautifully written – as is always the case with your work. Thank you for sharing this powerful, captivating piece of your heart.
Thank you, Tara. Your heart is always such a fertile place for words to land.
Beautful and appropriate for a day set aside to honor those who served and came home, damaged or whole, and those who came home draped in the flag for whom they fought, and those left behind with their prayers and their fears.
On the way to my cousins house in Maryland on Monday night, we stopped to see the new Martin Luther King, Jr memorial. A larger-than-life statue, facing the Jefferson Memorial across the water, surrounded by a marble wall inscribed with his words of hope, of peace, of need – and I thought, we need someone like him now. Such words of inspiration and promise seem not accessible in these troubled times. I thought of the World War II memorial and the Franklin D. Roosevelt memorial nearby, built with the hope that no president and no country should ever face such a conflict again. And yet they still exist.
And every year there is Veteran’s Day – a day that honored World War I, a day called Armistice Day when I was a girl – because the peace treaty that ended tha war was signed on November 11th at 11:00. And as each war came and went in the decades to follow, we had to acknowledge all of the veterans.
And thouands of women today are still doing “women’s work” and as they have for centuries. May we use this day to hold in our hearts the mothers, grandmothers, sisters, aunts, nieces, cousins, daughters, wives and friends who do this on our behalf.
Stef — what a full and heart-filled memory. Thank you for meeting this so deeply.
So beautiful Deb! Brings back so many memories of the Vietnam times, school mates that were sent and never came home….And today, whenever I see those very very young soldiers, boys really, so proud in their uniforms I invariably choke up. How is war still possible??
Monica, thank you so much for writing. It’s really a timeless story, isn’t it. And so many are so young.
I chanced to read this poem, Deborah, and I was very moved. It’s a beautiful contribution. The whole aching heart of a woman, waiting, was revealed to me. It’s part of the species, like testosterone pushing the men towards war. I thought it was a great service to reveal this particular facet, which everyone knows about, but I’ve never seen explored like you have done. I remember my partner Janet’s aching fears about her son returning from Iraq duty. As a man, I said “Hey there’s almost no statistical chance he could be hurt: he’s very strong; don’t worry” – but she worried. To extend, my mother worried about me on various youthful adventures I had, while I was supremely self-confident. In maturity, I think I took some dangerous chances, as maybe I “had to do,” but she was probably right, and her heart caring and worrying means everything to me, especially now that she is long gone.
Thank you, Doug. It’s so good to know when something lands well and is recognized. Please feel free to share it with Janet, if that feels right. It’s interesting that it took you back to your mom. We do worry, and feel helpless, even when those we love are doing what they “have to.” Thank you for taking the time to tell me.
Heartbreaking yes..I can’t even “go” to those place u go to.
I always tell myself that we are all accountable for what happens “to” us. Soldiers are people that make choices to put themselves in horrific situations where there is a greater chance of being killed. I thank God that I had the good sense not to have children because I could never endure the pain of losing a child.
But you do, Laurie. You open your feeling heart and let words take you there. Thank you for making the space to witness.
Beautiful poem, Deb. It also made me reflect about this woman’s fear of her man’s ungry…
love
NL
Thank you, Nidia! I’m so happy it moved you. love, D