Why the Colour Yellow Makes Me Cry

We had barely begun

to tie the ribbons

when she got the news.

I noticed the car first,

stealing like

a grey ghost

moving too slowly,

stopping finally,

across the street.

Two senior officers

unfolded themselves

as if in concert,

their faces serious,

wearing what all of us

identified as 'the look';

the insignia

on the car-door

attested to the news

they were bringing,

Even had they been able to

adjust their demeanour,

Hide the news crouching

behind their eyes,

Rankling in their hearts.

She saw them

as they crossed the street,

sat down hard atop the ladder.

Her hand, of its own volition,

flattened against her chest,

as if to stay her heart.

She looked to me then,

her eyes begging me

to tell her

it wasn't true.

I helped her down,

wrapped my arms

around her,

Trailing yards

of yellow ribbon;

bright, welcome-home,

yellow ribbon.

It spilled obscenely,

puddling at our feet

as the officers removed

their hats, stood at attention

Prepared to tell her

there would be no need

for yellow ribbons

for her son,

when he came home.

No - his colours would be

red and white,

His coffin wrapped neatly,

- corners squared and tied

in his country's flag

As it made its sad pilgrimage

over the sea,

and back home.

The officers wanted to

drive her home

But she wanted to finish

tying ribbons on trees

So, until there was no

more ribbon,

we worked silently,

Tying bow after bow

after bow.

It was twilight

when we finally

started back to my car;

We hadn't spoken

since she got the news.

The silence was eerie,

but appropriate,

What was there to say...

Another Canadian life lost

in Afghanistan.

What had happened

to our nation

of peace-keepers

I wondered for perhaps

the trillionth time,

Feeling more than a little ill

with the futility of it

Were we making

a difference over there?

Were we being sold

a bill of goods over here?

How many more

of our young people

Were we going to have

to see shipped

home in body bags,

And honoured posthumously

in flag-draped coffins

Before we would rise up

and say, enough

Enough

Do not send any more

of our future

over there, or anywhere

To slay,

or to be slain.

Enough.

Learn more about this author, S.E. Ingraham.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

---

Add your voice

Know something about Poetry: Soldiers?
We want to hear your view. Write now!