They were children


Some of them still are.

They gather in the park

The one with memorials erected to honour the war dead

Also children once

Lives cut short


Now just names carved into stone

On forgotten monuments

Inside a park

Filling with ghosts

Inside what has become a subdivision

Of sorts

For tents and needles and desperation.


Just the other day

Sitting on one of the benches

I noticed that one of the park regulars

Now had a prominent baby bump.

Her twitching




Suggested to me

What her priority and her grief might be

Once the time came

For her to become two

And then one


I wondered how her story

Trapped as it was inside constant motion

Would play out

How it would become the inheritance

One way or another

Of the life growing inside her.


I looked over at the monuments

Looked around at all the scattered lives

Strewn in that park

And started to feel the gnaw of despair

As it worked its way


Into my corroding sense of hope.

In a moment of quiet

Sun setting

I could hear the whispers of the park trees

Blending in sympathy with the moans of the park ghosts

And the wails of the not-so-faraway sirens.

It almost seemed as if they were pleading with me

To resist

Resist with all my might

The urge to fold up into helplessness


At least for a little while longer.





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