Jonesy's Gone

the view from our house

In 1944, my family was living on Angra do Heroismo, an island in the Azores. Because of nearby bases, our house was filled with a steady stream of soldiers and Red Cross volunteers. There were four regulars I looked most forward to seeing: Walter, who later became a Presbyterian minister involved in peace activities; Clifford, who gave me my first paper doll and whose standard greeting was, "What's cookin', good lookin'?" Berg, a future jolly entrepreneur; and Jonesy, the violinist who took me through a crash course in classical music. His favorite piece (the poignancy of which continues to bring tears) was "The New World Symphony." He told me the theme was based on a spiritual, "Goin' Home," and taught me to play it with my right hand all on the black keys. I have a "program" my mother saved of my "recital" with Jonesy. Soon after, life changed abruptly. Jonesy was "shipped out." When the news came that Jonesy had "gone home," killed in an undisclosed location, "shipped out" became a terrifying set of words associated with death. His was the beginning of many, many losses for me and the catalyst for the firm resolve in my five year old mind to put an end to war. Lucille writes: "His name is Billy Anderson. Just a kid from a small town trying to start a life." Billy Anderson, 20, was killed in Afghanistan, leaving behind a young wife and 8 month old baby. He was the best friend of Lucille's grandson-in-law who lives in Tennessee. I'm inclined to say to those in sorrow, "Go ahead and have a crying spell. It gets the toxins out." My friend Sherry Boone, on the other hand cautions, "It's o.k. to have a pity party; just don't hold an open house. " Stacy L. Jackson's poem seems exactly right, the perfect grief poem. She thought it might be too sad to be published in the final issue of Sondra's Autumn Leaves but in my opinion, too sad can paradoxically lift one's spirits. It's a way of facing reality. Denial simply delays, a kind of post traumatic stress syndrome. Syndromes fester.

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I Cannot Go to Your Grave

by Stacy Campbell

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my heart feels flush to that flat stone

with your name, your name!

etched so deeply

there is no place for me

to grieve out of view

I don't visit

yet, I talk to you daily

surely that counts

I never thought

I would make it

without you

sick that I do

ashamed that I can

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The photo above of the World War I driver is courtesy of The American Field Service.

...may the blessings of remembering bring you peaceful times...