A Child's Memorial

For many days, the air has been temperate.
Not too hot, not too cold.
But today a hot wind blows.
A strong, hot wind.

And the grasses flicker under it;
And the trees dance.
Their big branches bow and their little ones whip
while their leaves froth and erupt with light and shadow.
All flora reacts as if a great storm is coming,
But no storm comes--
Only the hot winds.
The sky knows, for it does not turn dark and ominous.
It does,
however,
allow the blue to be blown right out of it,
Replaced by the lavender-silver
given for days like this one.
And I stand on my porch,
listening,
while the windchimes down the whole neighborhood,
clatter frantically.

I consider how it is fitting
that this be the day I am shown
my youngest son's memorial stones.

He has collected them on his little dresser
--the eighth stone only this morning.
He introduced me to them, told me their stories.
"I call this one Ball. It is shaped like a ball, see?"
He demonstrated a pitch.
"And I call this one Ship;
you know, because it's shaped like one.
But I haven't named the others yet."
He handled them lightly.
He'd collected them with care from the upturned soil of the garden,
washed them and brought them into his very room.
Every little story tells a bigger one, and
I was honored to share in this one.

I smiled, and in my heart thought
how we've been given a privilege,
this knowing of our sons' memorial markers.
All the more sad how we stand,
hand in hand,
staring at the backs of our own fathers
--both yours and mine, my love--
Staring in mystified wonder
because our fathers do not ever cast their eyes
on the piles that we stand near.
Other things consume their eyes.
And the verse comes to mind again:
Pro 22:28Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set.
Pro 23:10Remove not the old landmark; and enter not into the fields of the fatherless.

And, resigned, I think:
This is the price to be paid.
For when we become as fatherless,
Our field is shielded by the hand of God Himself,
and the landmark is protected that He has hidden there.
So say the ancients.

I look across the rustling trees again,
and I am at peace.
For though no storm rides its currents,
This wind is nevertheless a powerful thing.
And today is a good day
for the power of a dry, hot wind.