white noise

(In loving memory of Specialist Wayne M. Geiger of the 3rd Squadron,
2nd Stryker Cavalry Regiment, Vilseck, Germany, 18 October 2007)

I made a card for you, but even full of words,
it felt empty.

I trimmed a small paper heart
and rimmed its ridges red, white, and blue.
I pressed it to the front of your card,
carefully secured: a badge with its mourner’s band.

Across the band I wrote your name
but a trembling hand shook the pen, rained
tiny silver beads too much like tears.
Ruined, I thought as I watched them dry.
Then I mailed the card anyway, addressed
it to your mother.

Your father said she had known,
had slept heartsick with premonition,
and cried herself to sleep the night before
anyone else knew. When morning came
so did the soldiers, their faces a grim confirmation:
indeed, the war had taken you.

I trace memories of you, now in bright contrast,
against the darkness of my own sorrow.
I hear the flags swing at half-mast in your name,
that the halls of our alma mater are filling;
the bereaved come together bringing
candles and wreaths, clutching little flags
and sharing their memories of you.

I’m so far from home today, unable to serve your family,
unable to serve as you’ve served me. Instead,
I’ve mailed my heart to them. And I pray
it will help see them through.

—

Note: This is a revised version of the poem I sent to Kim after hearing of Wayne’s death. I’d already talked to Randy, or rather, I tripped over my own sadness and disbelief in an effort to let him know how sorry I am. I kept thinking of Kim, though, and the worries she voiced when Yana and I visited the two of them in Lone Pine this past June. One would have to know these two to truly understand: half of their legacy is now gone. I am so heartbroken for them, but also for all the moms, dads, brothers, and sisters out there. So many lives are swallowed up by war — not just those it kills — but those left standing, too.