Funny the things one saves from disaster. In the midst of ruin almost everyone that survives takes that one turn back. We grab a last look or a souvenir is scooped up from the rubble like a bauble or a trinket to be stuffed in a pocket and carried away from this minefield journey that is both a battlefield and turning point.
As we head away from the face of our own life's undoing we take time to suck in the unsettled dust and force our lungs to soak in as much as they can hold.
This, afterall is the last breath of a chapter never again to be lived and forever to be replanted in this unwritten story unfolding in painful layers.
Towering men stand dazed in a trance, searching for a sign of something familiar. Behind gold-red jungle eyes still burning, glowing...they bake in the heat of a spiritual disintegration.
Motionless, silent, unbent by the weight of their own survival, they are the first to rise from the last page of our terror.
Alone into the dark labyrinthian depths of the underground, they will return single-file to recover the lost. Somewhere beneath this monster of sorrow, behind the last film of fire and the transparent curtain of death, the unforgotten markers postpone reservations in heaven.
Heroes beyond their turn on this earth, the last gift they have is time...time to those who aren't ready to let go. Time to those unprepared to face defeat.
What will we save from all of this pain? So many stories are already being forgotten. So many children will never hear them all. We must promise ourselves to memorize these voices. We must vow to preserve the essence of every one.
We must begin telling stories that will become those we mourn. We will stitch every moment that sticks in our head and begin taking back what is unstolen or gone.
Someday the children will return with a thirst and a need unconsumed. "Tell me a story about the man that you knew."
Let this be the gift that cannot be destroyed. We must vow to remember each man forever....the little things; the small quirks; the stride of his walk, the crinkle of his smile, the capacity of his heart that always stayed good.
If we can remember the gifts that they left, this mountain of sorrow will not include our regrets.

by: KauilaPolu