He rings her doorbell,
And hears the jangling sound,
Throughout the house.
His heart thumps loudly in his chest,
Yet he feels no pain;
He is not here.
Already he has untangled himself from the web of confusion,
His former self.
Plans must be made.
Lies unearthed, truths buried,
Alive and screaming like the foolish boy
Try to expose them.
The woman shuffles around anxiously,
Contained by her cluttered home.
She wonders who,
Could care so much,
Or so little,
As to disturb a hopelessly distraught mother,
Desperately trying to abandon her lamented status.
She opens the door,
To an unfamiliar face,
Young yet tragically aged.
Where burdens and secrets alike,
Have enmeshed themselves into deep wrinkles,
And grey folds of drooping skin.
She searches this face,
Intrigued by dark unpretentious lips;
The type that would so belong to the carefree.
And eyes, distant pools of muddy glass,
Shimmering lightly through the dark of the night.
“Who are you?” she is finally able to breathe out.
But she whispers this,
With the greatest sense of premonition.
As in the most ancient part of her forsaken mind,
Lays a holy yet nearly forgotten image of a celestial son.
The loss of which,
Could cause such anguish to a mother,
That like her memory of him,
She would too in time,
Fade away into the nothingness of her grief.
“I am your son,” he lies casually.
“I was assumed dead at war,” he states matter-of-factly. “But I was just badly injured and now I return to you mother.”
“This is not my son,” the mother ponders sadly. And now she must grieve anew, her heart freshly wrenched from the rest of her soul, as she acknowledges for the second time the death of her son.
Lost at war.