Those who know me know I grew up in foster homes. The first home that I remember was the Schmidts (from 15mns to 7 1/2 yrs.). Mrs. Schmidt whom I called 'Momma Dear' came from a large family-I think there were seven kids. The youngest I want to call Jason for some reason-I know his name started with a 'J'. I believe it was during my fifth summer--about 1969--he came by the house late one evening. It was always 'special' when he came by because it was so rare him being so much younger than her. In my little girl mind I thought he was just so good looking with his long hair and his pretty blue eyes. He stayed for dinner and then he told us he had inlisted. I had absolutely no idea what that meant. It wasn't until sometime toward the end of summer that he returned. His appearance was so altered that I did not reconize him. I remember he had on a green uniform and a funny little hat. It was a weekend day, it was hot and Wesley (my foster brother) and I were playing Monopoly on the front porch. He came by himself. I can still see him walking up the walk to the porch, me staring at him, he reached in his pocket and pulled out two Hershey bars handing us both one. He reached over and gave my head a rub (the only person who ever could do that) and said, "Hey, kiddo" and walked into the house. Wesley and I kept playing while I ate my candy bar. Notice I said 'I ate'. Wesley waited me out and when I was done he ate his real slow teasing me. But half way through Momma Dear, Uncle Dick (my name for Mr. Schmidt) and her baby brother came outside. She was trying not to cry. In my childs mind I did not understand what was happening but I knew it was not good. I remember the stiffness of the uniform as he bent to hung me and kiss the top of my head. Little did I know it would be the last time any of us ever saw him.
The following poem I wrote in 1987 during the Gulf war. I thought of him when I wrote it though it is a fictional account. And it is to his memory and all those who gave their lives protecting ours that this is dedicated.
A Rose For Jason
The day that Jason went away many tears were shed. Momma just kept praying to herself, burying her face in her tissue. You see Jason was the baby of the family. Just shy of eighteen, he was called to serve his country in the war. I remember the roses were in full bloom, bright beautiful red. Jason had picked the prettiest one and gave it to momma. He told her not to worry, God will take care of him. He also told her he loved her--she could always count of that.
It was gray with smoke and dust on the field the day Jason died. He took a bullet in the heart; in an instant his life was gone. Blood poured from his chest, bright crimson red. In that moment, no one noticed; no one cared. He was alone. Just another one down for the count of bodies on the ground. The life that was once my baby brother is gone now forever.
It's been three years since momma got the news about Jason's death. You know she greives still. Sometimes at night when I lay awake, I can hear her crying. I miss my brother like I've never missed anything before but I think I miss momma more. The sparkle in her eyes has gone. She used to sing as she did her work but now she doesn't sing at all. She never mentions his name; she never looks at his pictires. I remember how she used to perk-up whenever he walked into the room. She would get a bounce in her step, her eyes would twinkle and her face would glow with love and pride that only a mother could feel. It's not that she doesn't love us; it's just that Jason was her baby. He was special to us all.
Now each summer when the rose bush is in full bloom we grown kids go out and pick just one bright, beautiful, crimson rose for Jason.
We love you, Jason.
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