Damned Sand

As I have mentioned a number of times before, I have been teaching for a lot of years. And, during that time, I have seen a good number of my students become successful, get married, have children and lead good lives. I have, unfortunately, lost a number of my former students in a variety of ways, mostly in automobile accidents. I have also seen a number of my students go into the military. They join to serve their country; and,in the process, grow up. However, some have returned from active duty scarred by what they have seen and the nightmares it gives them. I am proud of them for their service to their country, and have tried to help them through the difficult process of finding peace with their war experiences. It is to all of these young men and women and their service to their country that I dedicate this poem. It's story is the story of one of them.

Damned Sand
Christopher Bogart

He sat right next to me in the diner booth.
Not the boy I once taught,
But the man,
The soldier,
Back from Iraq -
But only on leave.

Across from us sat his wife,
And two year old daughter
In a pink top with two little pink barrettes
Tied in her curly brown hair.

She had to use the bathroom, she whispered to Mommy.
“Excuse me.” His wife smiled painfully,
As she slid her daughter, and his, across the smooth vinyl seat to the aisle.

When they left, we sat for a while, in silence.

“Excuse me.” He said suddenly in a whisper,
And he slid to the edge of the vinyl seat to face the aisle.
Frantically, he pulled his sneaker off and tapped it on the floor,
Again and again.
“Damn sand!” he muttered,
As he tried to empty
An empty shoe.

It was the sand that stung his tanned cheeks,
Tiny arrows that whipped him in the wind,
As he advanced under the cover of their fire,
The dull thud of artillery pounding the shelled-out town,
Sending mushrooms of thick black smoke
Into the hot dry air.

Ears ringing,
Sand stinging,
The little black dots,
Like ants pouring out of an anthill,
Advanced.

As they approached,
On the ground ahead
Among the rubble,
He saw the figure
Of a baby doll,
Scorched and charred,
On her hands and knees
As if she were trying
With all of her might,
To crawl to the open plain of sand,
And safety.

He approached the charred form with sadness,
His thoughts drifting back on the west wind
To his own daughter,
Distant now
But never far away.

This could be her baby doll,
He thought as he approached the form.
This could be…

But it was not her baby doll,
Nor was it any baby doll
Of any other child…

Salt droplets …
Sweat?
Tears?
… Ran down his cheeks
Only to evaporate in the hot dry sand.

Much later,
As I pulled out of the diner’s parking lot,
I could still see
In my rear view mirror
His wife and daughter sitting silently in the car.
He stood outside,
With one hand on the hood,
Banging his sneaker against the bumper,
Again and again,
In a useless effort to empty it
Of that damned sand.