By IVORY SIM
A mother mourns a son who achieved his dream but didn’t live to tell his tale.
MEMORIES of a young boy running through the fields and throwing pebbles into the pond were still clear in her mind. He had always wanted to be a soldier. It had been his dream since childhood.
“Madam ...”
She remembered the day he was accepted into the military academy. He had been on cloud nine and had beamed his way around the house, jumping for joy. She had smiled brightly, happy that he was halfway to achieving his dream.
“... we are ...”
The day she sent him to the academy had been a sunny one. She had sent him off with a bag of clothes and personal belongings and another bag stuffed with food, mosquito repellant and extra blankets. Items she was convinced he couldn’t live without.
Her baby had grinned like a loon and kiss her goodbye before going his way.
“... sincerely ...”
She had waited anxiously for his call and worried about him. And when he called, her worry dissipated. She could all but hear the smile in his voice. He had told her about the academy in vivid detail, and talked about everything from the curfew to the colour of the tiles. She had smiled the rest of the day.
“... sorry ...”
On his first visit home, she had waited in anticipation, wondering how her baby would look like, wondering whether he had changed.
Would he be starving? She had heard things about the academy’s food.
Would he be covered in mosquito bites? But she had just sent a can of mosquito repellant last month! She had paced the house anxiously. Why was he so late?
“... to inform you ...”
The minute he stepped through the door, she had gasped. She had envisioned everything but this. Her baby had left a boy and returned, a man.
He was tanned a golden bronze. Shoulders broad, back straight. He had grinned at her, eyes twinkling and had enveloped her in a hug and said “I’m home, ma.”
“... that your son ...”
Things went downhill after that. War had erupted and the Japanese had attacked the American fleet at Pearl Harbour. The United States of America had declared war and young men had been sent out.
“... has been ...”
His calls home had become less frequent. And when he did call, it had been short and brief, for he was weary. She had prayed and waited for his next call. For a call meant that he was still alive, still living.
“... killed in the line of duty.”
If she had known a war would happen, she would never had let her baby join the army. He would have been furious but she would take an angry, furious son over a dead one any day. Tears flowed down her face. If only she had known, she would have kept him home....
Years later, after the war had ended, she received a medal on his behalf.
She had smiled when people offered their condolence and told her that her son had died a hero and that she should be proud.
She went to the park where her baby had once pretended to be a soldier.
Images of him throwing pebbles into the pond came flooding back. She dropped the medal into the pond and watched, as it sank to the bottom.
Her son was a hero. But he was dead.
A mother mourns a son who achieved his dream but didn’t live to tell his tale.
MEMORIES of a young boy running through the fields and throwing pebbles into the pond were still clear in her mind. He had always wanted to be a soldier. It had been his dream since childhood.
“Madam ...”
She remembered the day he was accepted into the military academy. He had been on cloud nine and had beamed his way around the house, jumping for joy. She had smiled brightly, happy that he was halfway to achieving his dream.
“... we are ...”
The day she sent him to the academy had been a sunny one. She had sent him off with a bag of clothes and personal belongings and another bag stuffed with food, mosquito repellant and extra blankets. Items she was convinced he couldn’t live without.
Her baby had grinned like a loon and kiss her goodbye before going his way.
“... sincerely ...”
She had waited anxiously for his call and worried about him. And when he called, her worry dissipated. She could all but hear the smile in his voice. He had told her about the academy in vivid detail, and talked about everything from the curfew to the colour of the tiles. She had smiled the rest of the day.
“... sorry ...”
On his first visit home, she had waited in anticipation, wondering how her baby would look like, wondering whether he had changed.
Would he be starving? She had heard things about the academy’s food.
Would he be covered in mosquito bites? But she had just sent a can of mosquito repellant last month! She had paced the house anxiously. Why was he so late?
“... to inform you ...”
The minute he stepped through the door, she had gasped. She had envisioned everything but this. Her baby had left a boy and returned, a man.
He was tanned a golden bronze. Shoulders broad, back straight. He had grinned at her, eyes twinkling and had enveloped her in a hug and said “I’m home, ma.”
“... that your son ...”
Things went downhill after that. War had erupted and the Japanese had attacked the American fleet at Pearl Harbour. The United States of America had declared war and young men had been sent out.
“... has been ...”
His calls home had become less frequent. And when he did call, it had been short and brief, for he was weary. She had prayed and waited for his next call. For a call meant that he was still alive, still living.
“... killed in the line of duty.”
If she had known a war would happen, she would never had let her baby join the army. He would have been furious but she would take an angry, furious son over a dead one any day. Tears flowed down her face. If only she had known, she would have kept him home....
Years later, after the war had ended, she received a medal on his behalf.
She had smiled when people offered their condolence and told her that her son had died a hero and that she should be proud.
She went to the park where her baby had once pretended to be a soldier.
Images of him throwing pebbles into the pond came flooding back. She dropped the medal into the pond and watched, as it sank to the bottom.
Her son was a hero. But he was dead.
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