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.




Copyright Jim Kittelberger 2001.