October 23, 2009

Robert Edwards is Gene's 15 year old great-nephew.  Bob and Frances, Emily's sister, are his grandparents.  Jon and Martha are his parents.


Through the Gathered Clouds
     by Robert Edwards

His heart beat in his throat,
bringing along every idea of
worst case scenarios with it.
The day rolled by, but no signs of
surrender on either side of the amassed forces.
As the storm grew nigh, pray he did
to God.
The God who never listened to those
who fought and died in His name
on the battlefields.
He charged the enemy like a lion hunts a gazelle:
silently and from behind.
And he carried out his duty to his nation,
his mother back home, and those who he joked with, and
those who he befriended in boot camp years ago, and
those whose eyes became clouded by death years ago.

Leaving that in his past, he continued with life, whereas so many
he met in battle did not have the luxury
to do so.
I remember the sound of his voice,
deep and booming,
yet ever caring for his family.
His constant manner of dress:
Khakis, a collared shirt and loafers.
The taste his homemade raspberry jam
is ever present in my memory.
So is his hand rustling my hair
congratulating me for the best batch he's had in a while.
And his husky stature, tall and round who
would always greet me in his home in
Chattanooga, Tennessee,
and I have yet to fish with him, as he suggested many
times before.

As his last hours drew nigh,
he reflected on the time when he
last contemplated his demise, on that
cold Normandy beach on June 6th, 1944.
But today, there are no German snipers.
No land mines.
No barbed wire or dying friends.
Just him in a cold, white room, with
The Angel of Death hovering over him
maliciously,
The tubes and machines have done their jobs, as has this soldier.
And now, as his body fails, the storm clouds,
the same ones as half a century ago
cotinue to gather,
Blocking his vision, shutting out the light
forevermore.