He Killed the Child He Loved, and: Landscape with Boy and Gun, and: Thinking of Odysseus's Wife, I Learn to Wait Helen Marie Casey (bio) He Killed the Child He Loved My trees—and I wonder how I dare to call them my trees—are,by any standard, taller than I deserve and far more beautiful, sobeautiful that I am in awe. Sculpted by God Himself, I say to myself,thinking the phrase does justice to the oaks that tower in my backyard,haven for squirrels, chipmunks, robins, yellow butterflies, owls (nowand then) and, only occasionally, a red-tailed hawk. Vines sometimestry to climb the patterned trunks. And moss. I held a piece of the bark,brittle as it released itself from the tree, almost like a gift meant for me,the bark brindled and dry, bent a little, patterned with ancient glyphs—or so I almost thought. Should I keep the tree's remnant, a kind of token,or return it to the earth that shaped it? Tossing it like a rock seemeddead wrong. Disrespectful. Now how did I come to that conclusion,the bark merely bark and nothing more? What reverence shaped myview that I held treasure of a unique kind? Was it the city kid in methat knew a tree is royal, this partly because tall trees can be old,old as Methuselah, in fact, patriarch who lived to be nine hundredsixty-nine years, or so it is said. I may turn eighty and then denythat I could be that old. Perspective, isn't it, the question of whatthe age of a thing means other than that the thing has lasted and theduration can be measured by someone somewhere. Jephtha's daughter,slaughtered by her father because of his lamentable promise to Yahweh,did not last to measure anything but her duty to her father, the one whoslew her. He had promised a death to pay for his military victory. He didwhat he had to do or thought he had to do or was made to do. He killedthe child he loved. We, in turn, tell the story but what do we learn exceptto mourn a child who ran to her father because she loved and trusted him. [End Page 4] Landscape with Boy and Gun It won't end well, this scene,boy carrying a loaded rifle,seventeen and trigger-happy,lacking caution, looking hardfor his victim, it doesn't matterwho the victim will be, nohatred involved. More likemalaise, more like ennui,boredom that is permanent,the boy slack-willed, trigger-happy, gun in his hands, fullof himself, cocky. It won't end,his emptiness, because he won'tlet it end until he uses his gun,the long gun in his hands, symbolof supremacy, of having a big onein his hands. Loaded. [End Page 5] Thinking of Odysseus's Wife, I Learn to Wait Words grow on the darkest treesthen fly off the trees and chase each other. Two crimson cardinalsthere in the Japanese maple chase sunlightthen disappear into the darkest shade. I miss the hands of summerlong season of sunshine and skywhen the clock winds down and no one caresthe play of sun across my bodywater sloshing the shore.I mind it must be nice never to have no imagination …1I mind carrion comfort …2The garden goes to excesssquash rotswindfall and waste Some cacophony in all our livessome flowerssome dirtsome time on our knees. Nuns know that love is its own ladder to Godbut how could they know, smelling of oatmeal soap,that flesh is a satisfying house?How could they knowhe made us naked and found it good? Penelope—like a nun—knew how to wait.She knew better than anyonehow to revise,the subtle art of unweaving.Resolved not to be finished,night after night she unravelled her liferememberinga man and a journey.She loved her work. [End Page 6] Mother,I am afraidI fear death at the doorat...
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Jan 1, 2024
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