In my job, I deal with survivors,
helping them get the benefits they are due.
Today, a young widow sits at my desk –
just nineteen, mother of a four-month old,
wife of a soldier just killed in Iraq.

I realize I’ve seen her story on the news,
with all the played-up pathos of the media.
She looks smaller and younger than she did on TV,
still fighting acne, her dirty-blonde hair
pulled back in a hasty ponytail.

“I am so sorry,” I say, the universal response
that sounds more like guilt than sympathy.
Valiantly, she fights back tears through my questions.

I realize she is my son’s age,
her husband not much older.
My fingers fumble over the keys;
I find it harder to stay business-like.

I say nothing like, “You must be proud that
he died in the service of his country,” or
“His sacrifice will not have been in vain,” or
“We salute our brave men and women fighting
for democracy and the liberation of the Iraqi people.”

I only watch as she worries about how long
she will have to be back with her parents,
how she will take care of her baby,
whether the money I approve will help her enough,
how terribly she misses her husband of only a year.

I don’t know if she loathes her President
or where she keeps the folded flag.
All I know, as she squeezes my hand in gratitude,
is that none of this should have happened.

01/24/2005

Author's Note: A true story - probably not the final draft, though...

Posted on 01/24/2005
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt