She stands
in the kitchen window, staring out at the rising dust,
Knowing
five minutes before they arrive, there is soon to be a
knock at the door.
She peers
through the French lace curtains, and all the blood
rushes to her feet,
When she
recognizes the emblem, U.S. Department of War.
The
reflection off the car, was as clear as the brass he
displayed upon his chest,
As the
announcement of his visiting intentions, burned
painfully in her mind.
With great
regret I must inform, words with a deafening tone,
In this
box, is your son's affects, all that we could find.
Her heart
was shattered as the numbness took over her body,
Not even
tears could find their way through.
He gave his
life proudly defending his Country,
Under the
Stars and Stripes of the Red, White and Blue.
No words
were spoken from her pale white lips,
As she
watched them drive away.
The dust
trail once again flying through the air,
Leaving her
alone to mourn and pray.
She
crumbled into a tearful heap upon the cold hardwood
floor,
And removed
the top from the box they had so proudly presented.
She thumbed
through the letters, and trinkets, and at the bottom lay
his tags,
And on them
was his name, his number so boldly printed.
To them he
was nothing more than a number and name, upon a cold
metallic tag,
One of so
many, now, no more than a statistic.
But when a
grieving Mother holds them in her hands,
The horrors
of war, becomes all too painfully realistic.
And the war
rages on~ and another Mother feels the sting,
As that
bright shiny car pulls from the drive.
Leaving
behind a trail of tears, heading for the next door,
To tell
another, their son too, won't be coming home alive.