LCpl Jose Cruz and my son, LCpl Aaron Austin were a team. Thank you, Cruz, for allowing me to share this beautiful piece of yours. As you lovingly wrote it for me, I lovingly share it with others and dedicate it to the safe return of The Mushrooms. They are all present and accounted for!
Friday 25, June [2004]
By LCpl Jose Cruz, USMC
One day shy of two months ago exactly marks the worst day of my life. The window in my heart that was left open that day now lets in an icy gust of the entire length of my body. The fireball in the sky that puts out that energy draining heat has now disappeared below the horizon. Now a half moon looks down at me in my tactical pause. Its silvery light filtering through the wavy and inconsistent nylon pattern of the cammie netting that stands above us, held up by poles with plastic tentacles at the ends. These poles must look like giants with outstretched arms holding up the sky to the mosquitoes that come out at night only to harass and annoy me as I stand, or try to, a watchful and vigilant watch. Most of the time I spend fighting the little pestering insects though. It seems as if the bug repellent I spray on myself only attracts them even more, announcing a feast under the cammie netting. Like it screams “buffet tent;” with arrows that flash pointing towards my direction. But during the day it provides a nice refreshing shade, keeping the fireball’s heat to a bearable degree.
Everything outside of the cammie netting is an outline of buildings casting their shadows as the moon’s light floods down on the land. A running generator and the distant barking and howling of flea infested homeless dogs are the only sounds of the night along with the occasional menacing roar of fighter jet engines piercing the sky as they pass by.
There is a rumor that is lingering in the air like the rotting stench of trash and corpses in this country. There is talk about launching a full combat offensive again. Normally I would be pumped about this but something is not quite the same. I feel alone, like I’m missing something. Something that managed to escape through that open window in my heart. Something that used to give me energy, and pump me up before the attacks, raids and ambushes that we had done before. Something that used to tell me that everything would be okay, confidence booming in its voice, like the bass you can hear coming down from a teenager’s car two blocks down the road. And I know what I am missing…. I am missing my teacher. I am missing my roommate. I am missing my friend. I am missing my brother. I am missing my comrade. I am missing my dip and cigarette provider. I am missing my role model and hero. I am missing Aaron. And it is hard to think that he is no longer here. That I will no longer hear his echoing voice. His ability to convince me to do things for him. To have a beer with him (or Gentleman’s Jack), or party in Texas and California like we had planned to do. And I ask myself, why him, but I know that only God himself knows why, and I dare not question my Lord and Aaron’s savior. All I know is that we will meet again in the gates of heaven. I don’t know when, only time will tell.
A slight breeze rolls through, making the cammie netting shiver as if it knew what I was thinking, allowing some of the stars to peek through. And I know that one of those stars is Aaron, lighting my path and watching over us. But right now, I feel like the moon. I feel that the other half is missing….
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8 comments:
:( Hey De'on smile... He is smiling down at you right now. I don't know what to say really; but as a former Marine there's no doubt that on Heavens scenes the streets are being guarded by this outstanding Marine... Semper Fi!
Oh, Gunz, your words are perfect ... they are straight from your spirit into mine.
It had been such a long time since I'd read this piece. In fact, I borrowed it from Lisa, as the original is in my safe deposit box.
These words from Cruz, combined with my own desire to hear that loud voice; all this and knowing that you all have lived through and yet live "with" these sacrifices, broke my heart as I copied Cruz' eloquent heart on to the blog.
When the tears were so much that I couldn't see, my windchimes started ringing so strong. These chimes, which Aaron has loved since he was in junior high, always work as a spiritual message to me that God and Aaron are hard at work.
Last night, What Child Is This, on Sirius 6186 Classical Christmas mixed with the tune of the chimes and it was all so beautiful, and I knew that Cruz had been emailing me, telling me he was in love, wants to visit, oh, I felt that boy of mine smile down at his Mom.
And then, my precious Gunz confirms it for me. Oh, I love you and all of yours.
You must always spill the words, Gunz. God has blessed you and Ebyjo with talents that must be shared. Thank you for sharing them with me.
Semper Fi!
Cruz is a fine man. His character unrivaled... Thank God for men like him.
It's weird how I feel what I do when I read your material. I don't really have to think about much because it just all comes pretty natural when communicating with you.
There's just a natural connection here. I wish you all the best and admire your strength greatly. Ebyjo and I send our love to you and yours as well.
Even though I don't leave comments, I read this blog daily. If you remember, my husband was killed in Iraq. This poignant narrative by this Marine touched me deeply. I'm an English teacher, and, today, I shared this story with my classes. Most of them brushed away tears when I finished. Thank you for sharing it. I'd like to leave one of my favorite poems here about the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I see that you're posting material about other conflicts, so I thought I'd contribute this.
Facing It
by Yusef Komunyakaa
My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
To Gunz...we all feel that same way too. It's blessed here, and I'm so thankful. I'm drawn here over and over. I'm drawn to you and Ebyjo...and as Steve said, in our life, there are no coincidences! Write ON!
To Julia, of course I remember you. I have wondered about you over and over! And a teacher, too!
The poem is beautiful. I love poetry and have not the talent it takes to write it. But yes, you are right...we celebrate all our troops and the families who give them to us. We truly are interested in you. Please share at anytime, any post. We are so happy to hear from you!
Now I just need to hear that Diana and Harrell are okay! I bet they are!
To Gunz...we all feel that same way too. It's blessed here, and I'm so thankful. I'm drawn here over and over. I'm drawn to you and Ebyjo...and as Steve said, in our life, there are no coincidences! Write ON!
To Julia, of course I remember you. I have wondered about you over and over! And a teacher, too!
The poem is beautiful. I love poetry and have not the talent it takes to write it. But yes, you are right...we celebrate all our troops and the families who give them to us. We truly are interested in you. Please share at anytime, any post. We are so happy to hear from you!
Now I just need to hear that Diana and Harrell are okay! I bet they are!
De'on,
Thank you for thinking of me. I'm doing so much better, and I find there are days when my grief is becoming manageable.
After reading all that you've written on here about your son, I thought about a poem by Whitman. It's titled "Vigil" and it speaks about the horrible act of men killing one another and the unnatural act of one soldier who buries his soldier-son.
We've always sent our sons to do battle for our country, and we've buried many of those sons. Whitman's soldier-father who bends over his dead son represents the country that bends over the multitudes who die for honor and country. Our country still asks sons and daughters to die for us citizens. We are all fathers and mothers of the fallen. Writers must, like Whitman, continue to capture these burials if any sense is to be made of the carnage. I love how you love all the military. They are, indeed, "ours." Thank you, De'on, for Aaron.
Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field
by Walt Whitman
Vigil strange I kept on the field one night:
When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day,
One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return'd, with a look I shall never forget;
One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground;
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle;
Till late in the night reliev'd, to the place at last again I made my way;
Found you in death so cold, dear comrade—found your body, son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding;)
Bared your face in the starlight—curious the scene—cool blew the moderate night-wind;
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battlefield spreading;
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night;
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh—Long, long I gazed;
Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my chin in my hands;
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade—Not a tear, not a word;
Vigil of silence, love and death—vigil for you my son and my soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole;
Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living—I think we shall surely meet again;)
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear'd,
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form,
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully under feet;
And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited;
Ending my vigil strange with that—vigil of night and battlefield dim;
Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding;)
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain—vigil I never forget, how as day brighten'd,
I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier well in his blanket,
And buried him where he fell.
How beautiful, Julia. I hope you never stop sharing. "Grief," another beautiful poet said to me once, "is universal."
And you too, have so much to share. You are doing well; I'm so glad. We still have much to hope for Julia, and work and hope to give to those who serve, and to those who die a little bit inside from their own personal loss of one of our heroes.
Thank you. We need you.
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