LONDON BLITZ

Apr 29, 2008 - 23:29 PM PST

***super rough copy. needs lot's of editing (and advice) especially on the format***


I am abducted from my dreams and my room launches into focus: hurry. There is a flood light and a siren. “It’s coming”. Jamie’s cries filter through the siren and the cracker wall between us. His hungry sleepy toddler dreams are abducted. He is a siren. “It’s coming”. My hip bumps a tea cup; it smashes, cold tea splatters over my feet. China shatters over the floor. The wood is cemetery soil on my toes, under my strides to the dresser. My hands shake like frightened kittens.
The train whistle blows. Your eyes are brassy, wet, and aching. My hands are in yours, a warm little cave. The train whistle blows. Wait. You squeeze my right hand: “Hope” in a trembling voice. You squeeze my left hand: “Courage” an order. Your cheek mixes our tears, you smell of smoke and your sweat. Your lips are an envelope, the is seal broken, a letter read over and over. I’ve memorized that promise: “love”.
I fumble over the dresser, hands strong through paper and blouses. I find your cap; it’s polyester, frayed at the crest of the shade and plaid. It is a crown, and the smell of your smoke and sweat remains. It is a shield I pull onto uncurled dark hair the same way a child grabs the hand of their mother. I feel a slight tremor in the cemetery cold wood and it seems the siren hastens. “It’s coming”. My hands sting with the fearless cold of the room. Courage. Again the floodlight passes a patchy warning through the tattered curtain. I see a folded letter with corners softened like old skin. I slide it into my rough robe. There is one picture on dresser. The humbled flood light can not illuminate its glass more then my memory can.
Jamie’s hair is red, fierce and, strong. The pride in just your eyes is a challenge to any man who is a father or a husband You ruffle my perfect curls and I sigh, try to fix them, and give up. There is that damning letter in your pocket. Tonight I will burn that. Jamie is walking over a flower bed to us. This will be our picture.
I squeeze my hands together; spark the embers you left in them. Hope. My fingers on the doorknob feel the brass thrumming with the pounding of thousands of hearts. Follow me. I leave some of my warmth on the brass to share. Jamie is crying in dark jailing hallway, a rabbit against the wall. “It’s coming”. The wood smoke is hiding, the cold is herding it away. The hairs of my neck angle with the fragile walls. Jamie runs to his den in the folds of my robe. His little hands squeeze my hands and I share my warmth, my strength. His eyes are brassy, wet and longing. He is heavy in a clinging way as I lift him to my hip. Another tremor weakens my knees and they falter; recover. I pull him to my chest and wish I could keep him safe in there till dawn.
There is a piece of the damning letter in the fire, behind Jamie, its edges are begging for mercy. Never. I burn a scrap of the damning conscription letter every night before bed. You are on my lap, in your letter, red locks resting on my thighs, and tears falling over your cheeks from mine. You say your boots are muddy and you’ve killed 37 men that you know of. ‘Hope. Courage. I love you, Noel.’
Twelve strides to the staircase through another tremor and I stumble on the last step; a stubbed toe sends a fox into the nest of my gut. “It’s coming”! Another brass handle, it pounds with the beat of thousands of hearts, hundreds less then before. Jamie’s eyes are buried in my chest, his tears feed my feet. Down those seven stairs, there are no steps only a long leap with seven brief intermissions. The tremors are each a lion roar in my ears, ten thousand cockroaches below my feet and a cobra in my chest. I collapse under the stairs and cloak Jamie with my body. Your cap falls from my hair. I still feel the warmth of you in my hands, your letter in my pocket. I set the polyester cap over Jamie’s red locks. It is home now. “Daddy” Jamie murmurs, his brass eyes say “Hope. Courage”.
I pull the softened letter from my robe. A violent tremor. “It’s here”! There are prides of lions in my ears. I clutch your letter in my right hand, Jamie’s little innocent palm in my left. It feels like the bunker floor is made of cockroaches. I close my eyes. There is a flower bed, your wet brassy eyes, your envelope lips. The cold in the bunker shutters with the next tremor. I can feel the fire on the stairs and the hairs on my neck recede. ‘Hope. Courage. I Love you, Noel.’