The Days of Loss

The first one came swiftly
Without warning-like the wind down the plains,
I, in the fourth grade class of Mrs. Mendes,
Hid under my green corduroy coat
And sobbed for the President we all had hope in
The one that looked like a nice daddy
The one who would not see his children grown-
Would not see them
Full and ripe, the sweet bounty of summer.

The next one came
When we were fearful,
Not so naive, having tasted tragedy-
We were wary now…
And it did come-
The day that Freedom's voice was shot 
By a coward of bigotry,
A coward afraid of a black man named Martin-
I hid under my bed covers
And sobbed for the children
Of a man who looked like a nice daddy
A daddy who would not see his children grown-
Full and ripe, the sweet bounty of summer.

Then, the harbinger of tears
Tiptoed into my sanctuary
Leaving the souvenir of war's legacy
And my cousin's name on a memorial wall 
I would gaze years later
And weep for the children he would never see
The full and ripe, sweet bounty of summer.

I never hide now.
I never hide the tears
That glisten in the autumn,
The sweet golden days, now past… 
Tears wept for all the children,
The daddies,
The mommies,
The brothers and sisters,
Who know not the sweet bounty of summer.

by Sharon Frye