Song for Night

Home Is a Palm Fisted to the Heart

It is late evening when the coffin finally bumps up against the opposite shore. Wearily, I climb out. There is a house on the bank and all the lights are burning. I drop my gun and my bayonet and my machete. I am too tired, I can’t do this anymore. If death is what awaits me, I want to face it without fear. I’ve had enough of that.

There is a woman sitting on the veranda on a porch swing. She is young and smiling and happy. As I approach, I realize who she is. It can’t be, but it is.

My mother looks toward me and holds out her arms. I stumble into them and she pats me on the back.

“My Luck, My Luck,” she says. “You are home.”

I pull back and look at her. I am trying to make sense of it, to think, but I can’t focus.

“Mother,” I say, and my voice has returned.