Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

You put the car in park and sigh, wishing you didn't have to do what you're about to do. You open the car door and get out, making sure you have the letter in hand, wishing you didn't. You start your walk to the door and see several oak tree's with yellow ribbons tied around them. From one of the trees you see a tire hanging down by a rope. You wonder if they played on it as a child....This makes it worse. So much worse. You reach the door and knock on it. You straighten your tie while you wait and see more signs that this was a home where a child grew up and played. You wonder if they sat in that very chair while they're parents showered them with affection. Then you scream inside your mind to stop. You must not think such thoughts, for it will only make this worse. So much worse. While you continue to wait, you try and think words of comfort, knowing they will do no good. That they will fall on deaf ears. You check your jacket pocket to make sure the gold star is there and feel that it is, while cursing the day you ever took this job. You look up quickly as the door opens. You see a couple in their forties. They smile at the sight of your uniform but you keep your face in neutral and hand the man the letter with one hand and the gold star with the other. He takes it with a blank stare on his face while his wife collapses to the ground crying. Her husband just stands there, his hands shaking, while left speechless. His wife was not so. As you try to help her up, between her sobs, you hear her ranting of past memories of her child and you feel worse. So much worse. You set her down in a chair and try and calm her down with words of comfort knowing as you say them, knowing as you had when you thought them earlier, that they do no good. You look up and look at her husband. He has the letter open now and has silent tears running down his cheeks. You do your best to comfort them for the coming hour or two then you must leave, silently leaving them to their misery. You sit behind the wheel of your car and grip the steering wheel until your hands hurt but you do not let go. Finally, you let your self go. You cry your heart out, hating this job. Hating this war. Hating God himself for all that he does. All the crying, heart ache and miser that he causes. Then, with out saying a thing, you straighten your tie up once more, dry your eyes and start the car to go and deliever the next letter and star. As much as you hate your self and this job, you know it must be done. You know, that even though this job could kill your heart, it must be done, because the pain you feel is nothing, compared to the pain of the ones you deliever the letter's to.

This poem and all of my other poems ARE mine and ARE totally original and ARE copyrighted. If you wish to use this or another poem of mine, please ask me first. Thank you.