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The Private Wars

Joyce Angleberger

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I moved through the hot, unending days, numb in mind and body. The limbs I cast and wounds I dressed no longer looked human, but had become like grotesque works of animated art in a museum of war. I brushed past outstretched hands to dress the next stump or close a pair of eyelids. Cries of despair and pain throbbed in my ears until I did not hear them anymore. The smell of death sickened me day and night. Eating and sleeping was possible only beside the mess tent generator.

On a morning of bright sunshine, something changed. Not the stench or the heat of the air, but the feel of the air--a barely audible pulse that dripped through the tent flaps like a balm. The living lay more restful in their cots, quieter under disinfected sheets. I listened, intrigued.

Balancing a bed pan piled with glass slivers and shrapnel on my shoulder, I headed for the pit and kept on going. Without a glance, I walked away from the misery. Drawn to that pulse like a newborn animal to the call of its parent, I escaped through the rubble to find it. Somewhere along the way I dumped the bloody pan into the ruins and tore off the foul scrubs.

The compelling sounds came ever-so-slowly closer in the way of distant green peaks in the desert. I found their origin in a wide city square—a scarred graystone building framed by iron fencing and trees. With the thrill of a child finding hidden treasure, I ran around the bomb craters and through a scrolled gate. Just inside, I kicked off my shoes and watched as each one landed on its side in the shade. Uncut grass sprang soft and tickly-cool between my fingers and toes. Sweet scents displaced the memory of death in my lungs. Savoring everything, I strolled through the green realm by inches..

Alabaster couples loitered along the garden path, handsome, whole and serene. They smiled at me. I hugged their naked, sun-warmed bodies, laughed aloud at my giddiness. I wept. The melodious air was so near I lingered with them in anticipation. I pressed bouquets of green against my face to feel the life of silky blooms and fleshy leaves, then laid them in alabaster arms.

A squirrel led me to willows bordering a sunken garden where the sounds were soaring. In its midst, fountain statuary shouldered a thick cloak of wisteria branches. I closed my eyes against their purple vividness to listen. Music surged through the air, bursting with chords and trills. I tiptoed down brick steps and around the story-high fountain to see the other side. Alone there, except for alabaster children, a woman swayed in a dance with her cello, playing Ave Maria to the roses.

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Joyce Angleberger is a science teacher, nature writer and news
junkie living in Funkstown, Md.  She can be reached here.

© 2004 Me Three