Ah, Grief, I should not treat you like a homeless dog who comes to the back door for a crust, for a meatless bone. I should trust you.
I should coax you into the house and give you your own corner, a warm mat to lie on, your own water dish.
You think I don't know you've been living under my porch. You long for your real place to be readied before winter comes. You need your name, your collar and tag. You need the right to warn off intruders, to consider my house your own and me your person and yourself my own dog.
I listen to Frederick Chopin's music this morning. His music is calming. It is a brook for the soul in the midst of a parched land. I am thankful that I can listen to it from the comfort of my home, not having to worry about bombs falling from the sky landing on my roof or my back yard to snuff out my oxygen of life. Life is normal for me and my neighbors. We have much to be thankful for-for one we are not living in a state of siege. Well, not munitions siege. We do live in the state of the terror perpetrated by Bush's siege on our emotions and our democracy. So far we are safe from his bullets and munitions, but or from his fear planting, war mongering verbiage.
Yet, my thoughts drift out to the Middle East. To those who die in each of the regions there. Whether Iraq, Lebanon, Syria, Israel.
My thoughts drift out to those under siege by the firepower of bombs, rockets, missiles, gunship-deadly force of any kind raining in on any of the warring sides. Armaments built to kill life and line the pockets of the military/industrial complex men and women with money.
With the serene notes of the Chopin music playing inside my house, I wonder who soothes the dying of those who are dying in this war? Who holds them in their arms or hold their hands as they exhale their last breath? Who or what becomes the balm for their spirits and broken bodies as they breathe their last breath? Who reads to them their favorite poem, or plays for them their favorite music as they die, like the Kennedy children did for their mother, Jackie O. as she lay dying of natural causes in her home in New York City a few years back, or like my friend, visiting her dying husband in a hospice, encouraged by the nurse there to keep stroking his hands while he took his last breath.
I forget. This is war. They have no one to read to them their favorite poems as they die. They have no one to hold their hands, or play their favorite music. They have the wailing of the wounded, the screams of pain, the gnashing of teeth, the darkness of crumbled buildings toppled on them as they lay there, dying.
Do they die in the blink of an eye? Do they linger and suffer while the blood drains out of their bodies? Do they die with the hope of a bright tomorrow still burning inside of them? Do they die angry, hating the American built bombs, or the American military, or the Israeli Army, or Hezbollah, or Hamas-those responsible for raining the bombs down on them?
Do they have a chance to make peace with God, or Allah, or with their Higher Power?
And what, or who, brings comfort to the living who face the empties, the empties of dead loved ones no longer there to share life with them, to comfort them, to bring them food, or presents, or flowers, or candy, or chocolates, or water? Who cares for them in their bombed out homes and streets? Do they have shelter when they are cold, or when they are hot? How do they manage without water supplies, electric lights, food, roads to take them out of hell? Where, and in whom do their human souls find comfort and comforting?
As I sit listening to Chopin in the comfort of my home, in the knowledge that today I will not be bombed, in the hope that tomorrow I won't be bombed either, I continue to think about the dead and dying. I think of the Bush created vast ocean of blood. I think of the seed of violence, blood, war and occupation that he has planted in the world.
Does he know, does he even realize the extent of his Kingdom of Blood?
When entire families are killed in one household does Bush grieve for them? Does the world? Is it just up to their surviving family, friends, neighbors and loved ones to grieve for them?
I think also of those pets-goats, dogs, cats, cows, caught in man's miserable game of, "Who has the upper hand? Our Bombs Will Tell." Innocent little creatures slaughtered in man's thirst for conquest and blood.
Teresa Simon-Noble is a computer activist for peace. She is a former mental health clinician. A poet and a freelance writer. Her work has been published in several online publications.
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