THE BLACK DAYS OF'80
(IN MEMORIUM)
BY
Carole Ann Heaster
We answered the ringing at three in the morn.
My stiffened body woke him, screaming within.
Not one - but TWO - were GONE!
Fired and exonerated from life as they rolled around the walled curve slaves had prepared a century before.
Far from home, I woke to hear my youngest sister's voice,
'THEY'RE DEAD, THEY'RE BOTH DEAD!"
Reality grew on me while I ran about in circles preparing for this journey, unplanned, unbid, unwanted.
Tears? Tears were my only comfort. They stayed and wet my cheeks for three hundred miles. It's funny, isn't it, how a really big family can suddenly dwindle, diminished unexpectedly by brothers lost? Their lives, their words, are now the only jewels carried by an overburdened heart as this Greyhound inchworms me towards my hometown once more.
Nearly over; the day sends still-fresh pain from the eyes of all who greet me at the door. Exact events are told in many ways - Memories begin in each heart separately.
Father escapes his pain in troubled sleep. Tomorrow he'll be on his route before the village learns his sorrow, they'll know soon for the headline news HE delivers will tell his story,(but not all).
Can I stay awake and ride with him? He doesn't show his pain! One day's time has passed and now I help my Father spread our saddest news - how can you?
Do you really know?
"Yes, I know," says he, without a tear. "You see, the fire in the car left no sons for me to see, just the bones of two who were, but ne'er again will be! I measured each for inches--to say Who's Who--MY SONS! You see, I know!"
"My heart is held within the curve and fog that holds we three. I cannot let them go--not yet--I cannot let them be. I saw the devastation of their bodies--my poor sons, so how can I forget or cry; or save the other ones?"
"Better we continue on our mission set today, remembering the others and how their souls are frayed."
Home again with hearts cried weary, attempting peace in sleep once more - but - the morn has come, friends arrive, the whole town is at the door.
Mother's in her room, any action numbed by pain - she waits, as always by the phone; he called last night at two. (At three, his life was over.) Her first born son was on his own, grown and wild and free, but when he was in trouble, he'd call his Mom at three, from wherever he would be. She waits each night now, unafraid of what his call will be, but just like many yesterdays, he still calls at three. "Now she answers hopefully, "Hello, Hello?" says she.--No one's there,no click, no air, but Mother knows it's he.
Her second son has left her, too, a wife and son had he. Her sorrow grows for now she knows her precious grandchild, with smile so bold, will not remember her young son, his Father, when he's old. This wife, still young, though in much pain, her wounds will heal, I know; she'll find a father for her son, and love again. 'Tis so!
Hours creep while listening of reveries continuing to dusk - then, everyone converges on the kitchen, one by one, sensing a completeness of our family once again. It's true! ON the table rest two small cardboard boxes - Our BROTHERS are home! This is all that's left of these two men? We hold each box, re-minding each and his own gift to us, floods memories again.
Seven siblings walk behind their parents to the tree where ashes of two lives are placed in solemn reverie. Within the year, Father will join them physically - though he must first deteriorate from the weight of his heavy heart.
Years have passed, no family live in the village where they lie. We've all moved on, our lives we've lived though within our hearts their dreams won't die. Three lie there, though two were first, the third my Father be. The slave wall didn't get him, but his heart could not be free. Until he laid beside his sons and all who'd set him free, his life had sorrow all his days.
So now, just let them be!