ANCIENT INJURY

In the evenings, he would read to her, or they would tell stories about when they were children living in towns not far from the one another. They were usually funny stories, but some involved moments wherein a soul impression or something extraordinary was revealed.

    As a boy, he had made and played with a bow and arrow. Once, he saw a small owl and was able to steal up on it and snap an arrow off the bow at close range. He wasn’t prepared for what happened next. The arrow went into the bird, and a drop of blood appeared on the white breast feathers. The bird’s bright eyes fixed on him, blinked once then fell to the ground.
    His boy’s heart pounded, as a feeling came over him he had never experienced. He and the beautiful living creature had been so close they breathed the same air, and then it was gone, but never gone were the image of those eyes fixed upon him and the memory of that awakening of conscience, sharply felt and deadly as an arrow.
    There was another story he told once, and only once—of an experience leaving an even deeper imprint. As a marine in Vietnam, where one was always in danger, vigilant for snipers and hiding places from which the "enemy" could spring at any moment (for such is the nature of war), he noticed a odd area on the ground ahead and a heard a movement. A part of the terrain had been disturbed, and a dug out spot covered over. Not taking any chances, he fired his rifle into the opening. As the other members of the detail gathered round, they looked in and saw bodies and found hand granades.They helped him pull two woman out by their ankles two women, the weight of which he feels still. His fellow marines thanked him for saving their lives, and later he received a letter from a general and a medal for his deed--one he wishes he never had to take on.  He does not display the medal and showed it only to her once, then put it somewhere out of sight, like he had the faces of the dead women, whose images became a blood red stain on the remaining white of his still young heart.
    Nothing could ever change what happened that day he had set out and returned that night as someone else he could never again quite recognize in the same way, so he didn’t look. But some images never fade; we all have our precious store of sorrow to stare into, and ways we  learn to blot them out, avoid them, tuck their sharp edges safely away, but nevertheless, carry them inwardly. 

    If we are lucky, we have someone to listen or hold us in silence, an arm round our shoulder, an empathtic, knowing look.  That is what true lovers have ever done when a trauma or secret exchange is shared. We silently carry the pain of each others’ innermost being--all through the night.

Willy is my child; he is my father

I would be his lady all my life

He says he'd love to live with me

But for an ancient injury 

That has not healed 

                                                        ~ Joni Mitchell