Some Mother's Son
By Joyce Freese
Copyright 2011 Joyce Freese
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Some Mother’s Son
Gettysburg, 1986
It was a perfect day—one of those days often imagined but rarely realized. The fresh warm breezes of late May were an immediate therapy to my chilled body still frozen from a harsh Midwestern winter. A hint of honeysuckle permeated the air. The light scent of fading lilacs lingered momentarily as I climbed onto the upper berth of the English bus transporting us to the grounds of the Gettysburg Memorial. The sudden jolt of the bus lurching forward intruded. We began our journey into the past.
Diverting from the modern highway, we continued along an unpaved road, a reminder of bygone days. Gently rolling mounds of wheat, newly touched by specs of spring’s sage green, stretched before us. Tall birch and poplar trees stood guard around its perimeter. Its park like setting conjured visions of children playing amongst its wide expanse. Children had been here before but not to play.
As the bus traveled downward into a dry river basin, the initial peacefulness of the countryside was replaced by a pervading silence. Jostling from side to side as the bus infrequently avoided rocky ruts that now had become the road, I felt a stillness that lingered from the past.
Anxious to escape the confines of the bus, I proceeded to walk along the dusty creek. With each step, I traveled back in time. The thunderous boom of the cannons and the acrid smell of its poisonous waste unleashed the battle. Ear-stinging blasts of spent rifles and distant cries of panicked horses added to the crescendo of the war cry.
The beginning jubilant yells of pretend men in children’s bodies soon were soon replaced with the muffled moans of an innocence forever lost as young boys masqueraded as warriors. The river flowed but not with the clear purity of spring water but rather with the blood of young men. Dead and dying soldiers were strewn amongst the river’s banks. The uniform colors of blue or grey changed to a common color of red.
The rocky river basin became their memorial. I wanted to find a keepsake, perhaps a lost picture or a letter written by some mother’s son as a testimonial. Only the haunting stillness remained as the far distant unknown grave markers became their epitaph.
Dedicated to all who have known the loss of innocence and the personal sadness of war.