A newspaper found a story.

Otherwise, we’d never know why

A city could hide the atrocity

of the Catholic Church living a lie.

Innocent children coerced, shamed

Put upon by god-like men, but not

God like at all. Just men - concerned only

For esteem their Archbishop’s money bought.

A phrase comes to mind,

I jot it down; then, add to it.

An energy is buzzing in my head.

I can’t, don’t stop myself:

Write, write, write.

Yes, that phrase; no wait.

That’s not quite right.

Go back to it, over and over again

Until it feels right. Yes, feels right.

The buzzing ebbs and flows telling me which words to choose.

Continue to change until the energy wains.

Read, re-read, and read it, again.

It comes to me for someone else.

Never sure to whom but it doesn’t matter.

I’m just the conduit and the energy tells me I’m “on.” Write, it’s time.

I know it’s finished, it’s ready to share,

when the energy stops; no more buzzing.

Oh there you are, my tall, lovely one.

Long green arms pointed toward the sun.

Your ethereal air resonates

Enticing others to emulate.

You quietly blend with the green grass,

While urgently searching for your lass.

Here I am, oh devoted prayor,

Hoping to catch your blessed favor.

I see us detecting, as we roam,

Worlds of undergrowth and loam.

Joined, we’ll jump from ivy to heather,

Magically melding hearts together.

American soldiers involved in the Civil War through Viet Nam, frequently did not have a choice about going into the fight. Whether they believed in the reason for it or not, Conscription said they went. When the soldiers returned, we had parades for them, shot confetti in the air. We called them heroes and told them they were patriotic. We stood proudly during the post war celebration, oblivious to the gall we had to ever insist that the soldiers experience what we hadn’t; and then spin it as if they chose patriotism.

I think about young people who are raised, now, with the idea that joining the volunteer service is patriotic. They enlist and head to Iraq or Afghanistan buoyed by the love and respect shown them for fulfilling their patriotic duty. Then, they find it isn’t what they thought it would be because patriotism is an ideal and those who said otherwise are sitting in the comfort of their homes.

We romanticize war: “I love a man in uniform,” the picture of the nurse and sailor kissing on D-Day, the heart breaking letters home, even Taps at the burials. We’re caught up in this chivalrous story of saving the good guy from the bad, EXCEPT that’s usually being spouted by someone who isn’t going to see fighting. Mom, Grandma, Aunt Suzy – “I’m so proud of Danny going off to war for his country.” Sometimes, it feels like we’re all saying what we’re programmed to say. Be honest: Who the heck wants her son to see war? How can that ever be a good thing?

We need to stop the fairy tale and tell our kids the truth: it’s a commitment like none you’ve ever made. Grandma can taunt you about your cousin beating you over there, all she wants; she’s not going. God love Aunt Suzy, but she hasn’t put herself in harm’s way, the way she thinks you should do. Let’s get real; it’s just poetic, this thing called patriotism. Know that once you step on that plane to boot camp, the ideal evaporates. Then, it’s really real and it’s your life that you could possibly lose with your heroism forgotten to all but those closest to you. And most honestly, if something should happen to you, no love of country can ever replace the child of my love - and I don’t care who says otherwise.

Not only was the line, "You can't handle the truth!" a monumental piece of writing and acting as it spit from Jack Nicholson's mouth in A Few Good Men.  It almost provided whiplash to the characters played by Tom Cruise and Demi Moore.  I don't know if their acting was just superb or if the level of violence coming from Jack shocked them.  They were shaken to their cores and their reactions were as impressive as Jack's delivery.  Outside the theatre, Tom is over the top; but his acting frequently shows great subtlety. That was the case in this scene.  Memorable.

How can I tell? What will happen to him? He is family; it’s been years. He’s an invalid, now. Who would be so selfish? Why do it? He’s an old man.

But it haunts me. So many years ago, and it still haunts me. I was manipulated. I was 8. I was lonely and it bought me companionship. That simple act enabled me to stay in the tree house, the fort. It was my payment, my pass. I was with the big kids. It didn’t feel right, but he said it would be ok. He said the others couldn’t see us. I found out, they did. Then, the others wanted to pay me; wanted to give me a pass. I was 8 for God’s sake.

I was always alone. When he was there, there was a playmate. Maybe, I would have done anything to not be left out. I guess I did do anything. So much shame.

I didn’t want his company, afterward; but he wanted mine. He was always trying to get me alone. I developed nerve sensitivity. Touch caused pain. The doctor checked; nothing to see. No one touched me for two years. Then, no one wanted to touch me, amen. The mind is a wondrous thing.

My therapist says it was rape. He was 13. A stranger, yes, rape. But, your brother doesn’t rape you. He says, “It’s ok.”

And 50 years later, I’m still the coward who won’t tell.