Byron's
War
The anger laid stagnant;
burning at my gut
and taking its own
sweet time. A motionless
vengence lying dormant
within dawns sweltering
light yet stalking
the night like an unwelcome
shadow upon ones
soul. My own soul.
Everyday had passed
impelling upon me a desire
to rid my mind of
the perverse and sadistic
assult on my family.
Such a long time ago, but
still only yesterday
within the mournful regions
of a broken heart.
Senceless, crul and merciless.
Just as I feel now
and have felt forever.
Gone forever. The
loving touch of her tender
hand upon my head.
The graceful fingers meant
for the luxuries
of a spinet yet held to labors
of a washboard and
the mountains of mended clothes,
worn and torn before
the knot was tied in the thread.
Her penance for
her betrothal to my father, a farmer.
A good, hardworking,
God fearing, Whiskey willing
man. He'd work your
soul right into the dirt, but,
he loved us just
the same. The ol' man never could
tell the difference
between me and Brice so 'boy'
usually settled
most differences. My twin, born
exactly two minutes
before me, and never letting
a day go by without
letting me and the Olson cousins
know who was older.
But, he looked it, and acted it, so
no one denied him
the title of 'Big' brother. In
fact, even pa remembered
his name more often than not. I got the not. It
didn't matter where
we were, pa
never called me
by my christian name. I doubt he even
knew it to be truthful,
but, he didn't expect two sons.
Not all at once
anyway. Anybody yelled "boy", I looked. I always wondered
why he got named
Brice and I got named Boy. But he took good care of me
and I owed him,
and this time it would be Byrons war, and victory.
The most accurate
wordds I could come up with for ma's funeral is
acrimoniously sweet.
Just add a touch of coffee and it would be as if ma
were there herself.
Pa, Brice and I
stood in front of ma's casket as the
preacherman held
his little book and monotonously
read words that
had been branded within the folds
of his brain at
least a hundred years. The tears in the background, the
sounds of napkins
and kerchiefs being used, and there we were, staring
without actually
seeing at ma's body lying ever so still. Never saw ma rest
before and didn't
plan on it then either.
The Olson cousins
asked me, behind the barn later that
day as we inhaled
a palmall and spit the tobacco
from our lips, if
I looked. No I didn't look.
It was hard enough
to know she was gone, but to
watch her after
she had gone didn't seem quite
christian like.
Like spying on her if she'd been sleeping. What's worse is,
she'd be watching
me sneak that peak!
The town folk laid
a spread out and everyone partook of it after the
preacherman had
done his thing and a couple of townsmen nailed the lid
shut on ma's coffin.
That summer, I believe,
was one of the longest,
hardest and hottest.
Pa drank about as much as
he mourned and Brice
and I try as we might, couldn't
do anything right.
Crops withered on the vines as the soil became dust, and
though we didn't
suffer alone, ours was a bleak harvest in comparision.
And pa, well, he
kept on drinking clear up
to the day we laid
him in the ground next to ma.
Most said he died
long before the consumption took him, and they were
right. Now it was
up to Brice and I to plow the land and bring in a good
crop or lose the
land and our home. Time seemed to be forever against us.
Bittersweet. No
time for fear, just the eternal
onslaught, day after
day and month after month.
Times were not only
hard for Brice and me. Some
folk applauded our
courage and steadfastness as they themselves went
under. even the
banks closed their ominous doors and like a slow creeping
plague other businesses
soon followed. I still do not know whether it was
fear or discouragment
that reflected from the weary eyes of most of the
townkolf. The frolicking
of
children ceased.
The gaiety of young women turned to drab indifference.
The air seemed stifled
and thick and a foreboding air took the place of any
and all seasons.
Homes were broken
as men set out to a war they really knew very little about, and Brice followed the call. I watched him go. A false pride mingled
with a fear that
only I could see in his eyes. Eyes that were a reflection of
my own. I said goodbye
to a mirrored image of myself that hot and humid
day and never saw
my twin again. The town, once boisterous, became a
ghostly
sight of a few men,
many women and children who
closeted themselves
together against the extremes,
sharing their sorrow
of loss, their fear of loneliness
and the meager supplies
of food offered by the government nobody saw. It
seemed our darkest
hour, yet, our breath still clung to our lungs and our
hearts still beat
within our chests and still nobody knew why. Our world as
we had known it
had come to an unexplainable end, and now there was
little left of what
we had been. Even the hope we had left was dwindling with
the supplies. Ours
was a world at the end of the world. Nothing behind us
and nothing before
us. At
least nothing that
we could make sense of. It was no longer ours to make
sense of. A darkness
so profound that its true title was branded forever upon our
era. They called
it,
"The Great Depression"
(c) Daneen Dustin
