In this lifetime you were my grandson. While you were here I had no idea our souls were so closely bonded. You came into our family because you knew you could communicate with me, as evidenced by our telepathic conversation as you were getting ready to be born. This connection proved to be very important.
In your immediate past life, you were a Marine in Viet Nam and that body is still there. Yours is a very strong personality and when you saw how the Viet Nam veterans were treated you were incensed. While in spirit you devised a plan whereby you would be reborn; become a Marine again, but this time, your death would draw a lot of positive attention not only to those who came back alive but to those who didn’t. Now, how do I know this? You told me your whole story three months after you died.
You were only 19 years old when that roadside bomb took your life on Sept. 3, 2006. I often wonder what you would be today. You had so much talent, Phil. You could play several musical instruments; had a wonderful sense of humor; had a way of getting into…and out of…trouble. Everyone who knew you loved you.
So it’s coming up to 10 years since you left us. As much as I miss you and wonder what you would be today, I choose to celebrate all the wonders of you. I choose to remember your smile, your voice. I look back on pictures taken of you playing on a beach on Cape Cod and laugh at you herding seagulls. I choose to remember how handsome you looked in your dress uniform. Actually, it didn’t matter what you were wearing, you were just one good looking kid!
And so, Philip, as the 10th anniversary of your passing approaches, I choose to dwell on only the good stuff.
This is a poem I started to write when you went to boot camp. I got five stanzas into it and hit a brick wall. I knew I would finish it when you came back…and I did. The remainder of the poem practically wrote itself. It was as if a part of me knew what was going to happen next and would not allow it to be written ahead of time.
Philip
Hey, Gramma
I haf ta go now he said
just before traveling
through the birth canal.
We were communicating Soul to Soul
my first grandson and I.
I was in the waiting room
he was waiting in the womb.
You can see them now
the nurse proclaimed.
He was on his mother’s tummy
I approached from behind.
He raised his head, looked
over his shoulder,
gave me a big smile that said
Hey, Gramma. Here I am
Nurses are in total disbelief
Put that kid down
let him walk home they said.
His life of selective rebellion
already beginning.
Here I am indeed.
He grew, as most boys do,
rough mischievous risk-taking.
He grew as handsome
as he could be irritating.
The future Marine emerged
a butterfly from a cocoon.
He knew what he wanted.
He wanted to be a Marine
Basic training and
specialized training followed
high school graduation.
Eager to go eager to serve
he left in July ’06 for Iraq.
He was doing what he wanted to do.
Then came that dark day
two uniformed Marines
knocked on his parent’s door.
We regret to inform you. . .
I petitioned God
Let me see him one more time.
He was so beautiful
surrounded by brilliant light,
smiling strong unblemished.
Hey Gramma.
I haf ta go now. See ya later. Love ya.
The Angel of Peace
and the Angel of Joy
met him at Heaven’s barracks door.
Welcome Home, son.
Mission accomplish
Job well done.
A few years later I wrote this poem. Phil, this one was for you, too.
Chimes
I walk through the cemetery,
occasionally stop to read stones,
imagine life stories of the dead.
So many graves
with baskets of withered flowers
or no flowers at all.
As I walk toward the cluster of flags
I hear the tinkling of chimes,
stirred by the breeze,
coming from his gravesite.
The chimes are
dog tags hanging
from improvised hooks.
How like him
to have icons of war
making heavenly music
over his grave.
