Army Mom’s Safe Haven

Herb Neeland: The Boys in the Mist

HERB NEELAND

THE BOYS IN THE MIST

I guess it was a dream,
only things like this can happen in dreams.
Or can they?

A lady sitting at an easel,
pallet in hand, a smile so wide,
it was almost a
laugh.
The arm going
this way and that,
brush strokes, painting, Hair blowing as feathers.
Occasionally a feather would blow off her lovely head.

A boy standing with a rifle;
watching.
The Rifle would drop,
and in his hand the feather would land.
He would look at it,
with a smile and a tear.
He would walk off into a mist.

This kept happening.
Rifles dropped, feathers caught,
then the walk to the mist.

How long would this last?
How long would her arm last?

She had to be exhausted.
But the strokes only got stronger.
The smile wider. Floating now.
Watching right from her soft shoulder.
What was she painting? Well,
they were words.
They poured from the pen like colors I have never seen.
Reds, blues, yellows; colors I can't describe.

A feather flew from her head. I tried
to grab it. I tried. I
ran, I floated, just out of reach.

I heard a voice. It was the Lady.
She said. "Why do you run? These are not your feathers.
They belong to those boys, there, in the mist.
The boys, can you see them?"
I said, "Yes."
"You see, they have no rifles; they choose something else now."

I wanted a feather so desperately.
She said, "You have much to do.
I have your feather. You just can't have it yet."

She turned; without losing a stroke, the letters flowed.
Again, colors I have never seen before.
I looked again in back of me.
There was another boy. He dropped his Rifle, and reached so
carefully and easily for his feather.
He took it gently in his hand. He walked to the mist to
join the others.
I wanted so much to have my feather. I wanted to go with those boys.

I turned to the lady.
She was walking. She was so far now. Walking, almost floating.
Her feathers were just hair now. Golden.
She turned and looked at me. She smiled.
She cried out in a voice, nearly like a song.
"Wait now for your time, your feather will come.
Go now and live, and love.
Make paintings of your own if you wish."

I could barely hear her now; she was so
far. I thought I heard her say "Live boy live."
Then the softest
laughter; she was gone,
but she was everywhere; I could feel her.
The boys had long since gone
into the mist.
I thought there must be one of those beautiful feathers here somewhere.

Then, I heard her voice again...
"In time boy, in time."

All I could think of was,
"Thank you lady with the
colors, the laughter, the feathers... 'The Dream'."

©Copyright May 2001 by Herb Neeland

Nam Medic and now an RN - and TLCB Member
"He Tried to Save Them All"

Herb Neeland: The Boys in the Mist

Chrissy - A story, a poem or maybe just a small gift for you on Memorial Day.
Your big brother,
Herbie xxoo