I Knew You But A Moment

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I KNEW YOU BUT A MOMENT

By Jim Kittelberger

The glider swayed back and forth

until finally, I was aware only of the motion

and the small breeze it created as I surrendered

to the repetitions and its ability to close out

all but the pleasure of the moment.

My eyes surrendered

and closed.

I may have dozed, I don't know

until I became aware that my ears were taking me into

that world where imagination reigns.

I sat in the silence of the afternoon, alone,

thoroughly content, my mind a blank canvas until

the familiar sound of locusts working the trees drew me home. The sun

directly above my head told me it was noon and very warm.

Grass under my bare feet, a slingshot in my back pocket put the

year at 1944, and I immediately felt the shattering loneliness return.

Tears which I tried so hard to hide came unbidden to run down my cheeks.

I lie under the big maple and weep and remember.

My big brother Ned and I had sat together under this same big maple

on the day he left. He told me once again that he loved me, and when he came home from the war, he would teach me how to throw a curve and all about the mysteries of girls, as he poked me with his elbow, and I blushed.

Then he promised me he would be back safe and sound.

He lied to me.

I grieve every day of my life for my big brother Ned, for all that

he has missed, but in fact it is I for whom I grieve, for the time I could

have had with him. Ned abides with all his fellows who lived

abbreviated lives, unfinished lives, unfulfilled lives, while we

who knew them wonder why, as we weep once more.


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