REBUILD - LBI

 Ashley was four years old

The summer I went to war.

She was an architect,

Engineer, builder

Of grand sand castles.

Detail and proportion

Were her expertise.

The first morning her mother

Took her to the ocean’s edge,

Ashley, armed with bucket

And butter knife performed magic

Creating a castle built

For a prince and princess.

After dinner, her grandfather

Escorted her on a walk to the beach.

She pulled his arm hurrying him

Toward her creation.  She found

The spot where her castle

Once stood.  Little was left,

Only a wet round mound of sand.

  “Why, Grandpa? Why?”

He pulled her close and hugged her.

What good was explaining

Wind and tides, sun and moon,

The eternal turning of the spheres,

But he tried. 

     

She protested, “It’s not fair.”

He replied, “It’s not trying to be fair.

It’s just the way it is.” He paused.

“You can build it again tomorrow.”

She did. And again the tide took

Her castle.  All summer long

She never stopped building.

I returned home. I had survived

My year at war. I had lost buddies,

Buddies had lost arms and legs.

I had abandoned all hope of normal.

I watched as Ashley spent her

Summer building castles.

She never said it, but

She showed me:

Don’t let the

It’s-not-fair-it-doesn’t-care

Beat you. 

Slowly,

She rebuilt my faith.