The Ages of "War"

January 16th, 1991. I was eleven. I clearly remember it was a Wednesday, as my mother had tossed the idea of skipping mid-week church to hear President Bush speak on the day’s events. America was officially at war. The word scared me – I suppose it still does today. My heart sank and my eyes must have grown the size of silver dollars as my mother, hiding the heaviness in her voice, quickly assured me “It will be okay. There are wars all the time all over the world.” At eleven, my only pictures of war were from drawings and stories in my history book and from the faces of the men who stood at Branson variety shows when veterans were recognized (I didn't realize my grandfathers served our country until years later). But the history pages were black and white, many with mere sketchings of past Presidents or military generals.  The reality of the war playing out on CNN, with reporters ducking for cover as the night raids brought rockets and bombs, was redefining my ideas. Several months later when my classmate’s dad was sent to Desert Storm, we all wrote him letters, colored yellow ribbons, and sing-songed chants of “Peace in the Middle East.”   

Over the past few weeks I’ve reminisced at my naiveness from those 22 years ago. And, been thankful for it. This past September 11, my school-teacher nephew asked his junior high students what the day meant to them. Many of them had never seen pictures of “9-11” or knew the details of that tragic day – the start of a new, different kind of war. I suppose that depending on the generation - and situation - “war” may be defined by yellow ribbons and patriotism, by hippies and protests, or by the latest Call of Duty game or television drama. My own TV flips from SpongeBob and back to Fox news, depending on if my six-year old, cotton-topped son is in the room. So, with his cartoon on pause, I asked him last night, “Cole, what does the word “war” mean?” "Oh, you mean like a thumb war?" he asked, with an excited grin on his face, ready to battle. "Yes, buddy. That's exactly what I mean." For now, anyway.

Where did it go?

We sold the crib (as though he slept in it a single night)

To a cute young couple.

He was muscly and eager – proud of his craigslist bargain.

Her baby tummy stretched toward her

Crisp maternity top, her voice bubbly with nursery plans.

We donated the swing to the church.

Gingham and blue.
Old-school – just the way I wanted it.
(Although it always seemed to go a bit too high and too fast for my liking.)

We handed-me-down the 2Ts, 3Ts and 4Ts

Tiny Easter suits.  Cottony soft footie jammies.
Thomas the Train shirts.  Elmo red shorts.

I know where all those things went.

But time.

Where did time go?

My baby boy – all 53 pounds & 48 inches of him –

Whose dimply, toothless grin accents
His cute chin freckle.
Whose blond hair glimmers white after
A season of summer.
Whose eyes gently close as I sing him to
Sleep each night.
Whose hide & seek giggle of “Daddy, ee r oo?”
Turned into “Excuse me, Dad, but can
We play Wipeout on the Xbox?” –
Will start first grade in a few weeks.

“First grade, already?” they ask.

I ask myself.

Where did the time go?

And, while I would love to answer this

Question with poetry and surety,
I have no answer.

So –

Knowing each second deepens the question,

And quickens the moments toward
first grade, second grade, fifth grade, 16 –

I hold him tighter

Longer.

I sing bedtime songs sweeter

Slower.

I make each kiss, hug, smile, and laugh count.

Count more than the seconds of

The all too elusive

time.