Posted December 24, 2011
Peace on Earth
I remember a Christmas eve,
and a child enduring
the seemingly endless wait
to Christmas morning,
when he could at last resolve the mystery
of the large blue box
under the Christmas tree.
An amazing thing it was,
to have endured a hectic two weeks
of handling, examining and shaking,
yet never divulging
so much as a hint of its contents.
I remember a childhood
and a family of love, understanding, and sacrifice.
A mother who chose to work in the sweatshop,
till midnight if necessary,
so he could have the smart blue suit
in Fauci Brothers’ window
to wear at Christmas mass.
I remember a grandmother who,
at eighty one,
walked barefoot to church
through the dirty streets of Brooklyn,
to implore the Blessed Virgin Mother
to spare the life of her grandson in Vietnam.
I remember a Christmas dinner
choppered out to a desolate LZ,
where the cold turkey and warm beer it brought
was replaced with the remains of comrades
who had seen their last Christmas.
I remember the smells of Christmas pine
and the sounds of silver bells
now mixed forever with the stench of decaying corpses
and the screams of those waiting to die.
I remember a dead VietCong,
stuck upright in the concertina wire
surrounding a firebase north of Danang,
his body “decorated” by war hardened holiday revelers
with tinsel, and Christmas balls, and holly.
I was reborn in war
and lost to all the Christmases
that came before.
And the man that remains
may reign with his plans and his schemes,
but the ghost of the child
still haunts in his dreams.
Copyright © Camillo C. Bica 2011
