Here above the ground in Section 60 I stand over newly wounded earth. The bone white marble teeth of this military graveyard are bared in the scalding summer light. Why does another autumn song tug the leg of my dark suit today? The first time I buried my son he broke free from a tomb of leaves I molded around him in play that late afternoon in early November between the swing set and the mermaid fountain. I piled on heaps of scabs shed by sweet gums and poplars that ringed the children’s park. He came out face first, flaming cheeks, nut-brown hair, a three year old parting the pile, shrieking joy, born into crisp air. He came back then. We celebrated his resurrection, pitched handfuls of his make-believe prison into the wind, spread our arms, knelt and with full-throated operatic monotones sang our song for any passerby to hear: “Leaves, Leaves, Leaves!” So, I am drawn away from July in Arlington to a November day. Not because I believe he will emerge to sing with me again. I go because the beckoning Siren offers gentle fading golden light, rustling on the ground and a softer song. Her music is faint rhythmic squeaks from rusted links and metal hooks that chain an empty swing in the breeze. She too sings “Leaves, Leaves, Leaves.” I go because she will show me the colors of his face and hair in a dappled mosaic lying at my feet, among the fallen.
What’s happening at VetRep…
Listen to our latest podcast with Stephen Camelio here
Get tickets to the very first Savage WonderGround (Tonight!) in Old Town, Alexandria, VA here
Get tickets to our intimate production of Good Evening at our Parlor in Cornwall, NY here