I want to thank whoever marches through hell so that I might
walk around unmolested. And while I’m at it let me thank
the losers of loved ones in wartime, families and friends who
deal with the bright lights of grief. You’re more deserving
than I. What have I done with this blessing, these missions
accomplished, these noble experiments, attempts put forward,
youthful hopes crushed and hard fought gains, unbearable
loss? I made mud pies, dust devils and snow angels; I made
sandcastles and grass violins, nothing if not ephemeral, a bit
like taking other people’s thoughts and arranging them in
ways that maybe make more sense than they did to begin with.
Some are like feathers or trance inducing fetishes, others like
bits of the outdoors brought in. I sit by the window, watch
for the news from on high to come to the valley where I break
it up for general consumption. Like the Popular Mechanics
of psychic awareness. I soften the news so consumers can
digest it. It’s what I like. I look at things I think are pretty
longer than anyone else I know. I look at what you’ve done
to get me where I am and judge some of it to be not so pretty
if you don’t mind my saying. And you have a right to mind.
But I say it. Maybe it will make me bigger than a snow
angel. I look for projects worthy of your sacrifice, ones that
reach beyond sandcastles and mud pies to make you realize
there isn’t anything anyone can do with freedom that justifies
valuing it over other people’s lives. But I find nothing. So
a puddle for your troubles. Hope it gives you back your foe.
–Gerald Yelle