lakers
10-07-02, 11:47 AM
I lied to him.
I told him fairy tales,
stories I heard as a child.
He looked at me
and listened,
his eyes filled with wonder and hope.
He was innocent and pure,
a child cradled in the arms of weakness
and doubt,
swaddled in trembling fear and desperation.
His eyes closed slowly,
and his arm slipped off my shoulder.
It hung limp and lifeless at my side.
His body,
draped over my arms like a green shroud,
relaxed and rested,
shed its bone-tired weariness
and final fear.
He was asleep,
peaceful, eternal sleep.
He was no longer troubled by the thoughts of war
--the fear of death.
I laid him on the ground in a soft bed
of blood red dirt.
I removed my flak jacket and placed it
under his head for comfort.
I pulled a canteen from a pouch on my web belt,
unscrewed the cap
and poured some over my fingers.
I touched his eyes, hands and boots
with my wet fingers;
and mumbled this simple prayer:
"I give up
to You,
this innocent child,
God!
. . . My arms are tired.
He is too heavy
for me to carry . . .
Forgive this man
and take him
to his final resting place
beside You!"
I scooped up a handful of dirt
and sprinkled it over his body,
burying him deep
in my memory.
Like me,
Mom,
he is just eighteen,
alone
and frightened
--and afraid
of dying.
That fear is over.
A voice called.
I picked up my rifle
and ran for cover.
This was my best
that day,
Mom.
Your son,
L/Cpl L. Parrillo
USMC 1/1
Vietnam 1969
I told him fairy tales,
stories I heard as a child.
He looked at me
and listened,
his eyes filled with wonder and hope.
He was innocent and pure,
a child cradled in the arms of weakness
and doubt,
swaddled in trembling fear and desperation.
His eyes closed slowly,
and his arm slipped off my shoulder.
It hung limp and lifeless at my side.
His body,
draped over my arms like a green shroud,
relaxed and rested,
shed its bone-tired weariness
and final fear.
He was asleep,
peaceful, eternal sleep.
He was no longer troubled by the thoughts of war
--the fear of death.
I laid him on the ground in a soft bed
of blood red dirt.
I removed my flak jacket and placed it
under his head for comfort.
I pulled a canteen from a pouch on my web belt,
unscrewed the cap
and poured some over my fingers.
I touched his eyes, hands and boots
with my wet fingers;
and mumbled this simple prayer:
"I give up
to You,
this innocent child,
God!
. . . My arms are tired.
He is too heavy
for me to carry . . .
Forgive this man
and take him
to his final resting place
beside You!"
I scooped up a handful of dirt
and sprinkled it over his body,
burying him deep
in my memory.
Like me,
Mom,
he is just eighteen,
alone
and frightened
--and afraid
of dying.
That fear is over.
A voice called.
I picked up my rifle
and ran for cover.
This was my best
that day,
Mom.
Your son,
L/Cpl L. Parrillo
USMC 1/1
Vietnam 1969