This poem chronicle is based on recently shared family stories.
After we said goodbye to another,
We turned to those already long gone.
To a time when killing was as common
As breathing
Or, perhaps, more so.
The remaining eldest of our bunch
Finally opened up on this day,
Sensing that now was another occasion
To pass the intangible gifts of
History —
The chronicles —
To the young,
More ready than ever
To accept them.
How did he perish?
He encouraged his friends
And provided a haven,
In the face of oppressors,
To break curfew and meet —
Meet —
To discuss bits of tattered news,
To dissect rumors,
To aid the resistance.
Then,
When all were lined against a barn's weathered wall,
Ready to let go of this life's cruelties and joys,
(Though, even at this point, it had been mostly joy,)
He stepped forward
And spoke the truth:
I am the one —
The only one—
You are looking for.
Though not even a trace of youth
Showed in his face,
(Had they not looked closely at his eyes?)
They snatched him on the spot,
And threw him in a boxcar,
Bound for hard labor.
And with that,
He was gone.
How did brother escape?
After being rounded up
With all able-bodied men,
Rife with potential uprising,
They tossed them into boxcars,
Yet did not secure the door.
A few bold ones leapt for their lives
Or their deaths,
Hid for days
In a dense, ancient, forgotten forest,
Then stepped forward —
In one weak moment —
To believe in kindness one more time and
Ask for a piece of bread.
The giver gave pointed guns instead,
And back to the boxcars
The officers forced the bold.
Until the next opportunity arose:
Boxcars stopped at a frozen midnight,
Bombs raining all around —
Perfect cover for an escape —
Which worked
Until the bombs kept coming.
They pretended to die,
Lying in ditches
For almost a day
Hoping not to give up all their ghosts.
When the bombs finally ceased,
He arose from the cover
Of mud and filth and decay and,
Finding himself alive,
Walked home —
This time
Not stopping for bread.
How did uncle hide?
In his kitchen,
In a crawlspace,
A human-sized wall safe,
Throughout much of the war.
To the oppressors,
His wife disowned him,
His children forgot him,
His friends no longer spoke of him.
As he became invisible
To his loving circle,
He became invisible
To the officers always looking
For labor-camp workers.
He crawled out of his blessed prison at night,
Always on edge, on numbed and cramped limbs,
For kisses and hugs and giggles and tears,
Then back in again,
To pray that one day soon,
He would no longer live
As a fugitive
From his own life.
This is my third Sunday Scribblings, and this week's topic is "chronicles." To read more Sunday Scribblings, click here.