D. S. Curtis

Publishing History:

Books:

Sweetbay Review Anthology 2006

It Burns My Heart
4th of July Cookout
LeOmi's Solitude Introduction

2007 Journal

Revelation Made Easy, co-authored
© 1993 (out of print)

Recent Newsletter Articles:

This Book is Dedicated to...
Writer's Studio Newsletter, Spring 2006,

My garden Notebook
Southside Garden Chatter, April 2006
 

Recent Newspaper Articles:

Film Review:

Scarlet Street
Gazette Virginian, July 10, 2006

Interview Article:

Women of Hope Plan Fall Retreat
Gazette Virginian, Oct. 20, 2006
 

It Burns My Heart
by D. S. Curtis

It was summertime and the short walk from the office to the court building was almost unbearable. My shirt felt like a clammy layer of extra skin and there were so many people rushing along the sidewalk it was almost like the whitecaps crashing in from the sea. Oh, to be out on the boat, with the salty taste of the ocean air and watching the dolphins curve in and out of the water with the waves, there was no avoiding the only possible outcome for this day. It was the day the papers were finalized that made my son legally dead.

Everything seemed to be a haze as I walked through the doors of the Courthouse, down familiar halls that my mind barely recognized. I felt like I had switched on the automatic pilot. I passed some acquaintances and nods of the head were exchanged. The long corridors wound around the courtrooms to the Circuit Court in the rear of the building. I found myself reaching into my pocket and fiddling with his great grandfather's pocket watch; an antique heirloom that had been passed down from generation to generation. My son had given it to me for safe keeping while he was gone. I could feel the time ticking by from the old mechanical workings in the palm of my hand. His great grandfather was a bugler in the infantry during World War II. He left behind a family of six.

In the crowded courtroom, the benches were cool and smooth. The smell of worry and fear was easily recognizable. Usually, I don't have the freedom to look around at the faces in the courtroom. On this side of the bar I saw concern on some faces but most people just looked angry. Some seemed to be put out that they had lost a day of work, anxious to get it over with so they could continue their hectic lives.

My cell phone rang and the sheriff gave me a warning look. I quickly reached into my pocket and turned off the phone, never even checking to see who the caller was. Emails and cell phones are now common place. A letter in the mailbox is called "snail mail," generally because it takes so long to reach its destination, where as emails are simply a stroke of a key. Some things seemed to come easier these days, but some things are much harder.

Waiting for your name to be called is one of the most difficult things about being in court. If you're a lawyer waiting for your case to be called you have files to go over, or consulting with your client, but today time passes slowly and I found myself remembering the first letter we received after my son had gone away. It came with the "Holy Land" postmarked on it. He had taken a three-day pass with a group of friends and they had decided to visit the place where Jesus had walked the Earth. It was important to him. The symbols of love, faith, hope and peace were engraved on the ring he always wore. He wrote about how he and his friends had drank strong coffee at a street-side table outside of the hotel where they stayed and how they had watched the locals doing simple everyday things so close to the warfront. Like a woman walking her dog and getting all tangled in the leash. How they had watched the evening sky turning purple, and how they had been mesmerized by a huge group of hungry sparrows gulping up swarms of flying insects.

The bailiff cleared his throat. He began with the same words that he said every morning court had been in session, "All rise." The judge entered the courtroom and took his seat. So many times I'd heard those words. This isn't the first time I've sat in court for you. You needed me when you were young and you would drive too fast. You didn't need my permission to go to war. I told you not to go. I told you that you had obligations here, but like so many arguments, you had to do what you wanted. You had to go. I tried not to think about it. We had lots of fun times and I tried to think of those. We'd seen many things and we'd sailed to many places we’d never gone to before. I remember how at night, under the crisp sky we would bundle up on the deck and watch for falling stars and look at the craters on the moon. On the sea was where I told you about reading To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, what an impact it had on my life and how it had steered me into becoming a lawyer. I gave you the book and I thought it had become your dream too, but now I see that it was my dream for my son to follow in my footsteps. It was not your dream at all.

I tried to listen to other cases as they were heard. The judge rambled on as he often did about the responsibilities of a delinquent parent, and I think he hoped someone in the courtroom had listened. Finally, the judge called your case and my thoughts were brought back to the task at hand. Even as I walked forward l still felt hope. You have always been such a treasure. No one to be discarded this easily. The judge assigned a final date for an empty grave in the cemetery. These thoughts burn in my mind and sting my eyes. Sometimes I feel so lost, so helpless. I must put away doubt and believe that you did what you had to do. You heard of the battle and you did not hesitate. You had no fear. Your life was planned to be wealthy and successful. I know you thought the risk was worth it.

The judge looked down at the papers before him. Everything was in order. He looked at me with compassion in his eyes. He told me how sorry he was. How all the nation was indebted to all these fallen men and woman. The bailiff handed me the signed papers and in just a matter of moments, my boy was officially dead.

Walking out of the courtroom, the artificial light blended with sunlight from the windows and I saw a painting on the wall. I'd seen it a hundred times, but today I saw it in a different way. It had a snowcapped mountain in the background beyond the trees and it reminded me of one of his letters. In December he was in the mountains, living in tents. He wrote and said:  

My heart pounded as the lightening and thunder of missiles crashed all around us. Men with guns came up out of the mist of the mountains. The other soldiers say the dance awaits. That's what they call it here: the dance. Take one step at a time. It is like a flame that starts deep inside--protect yourself and your unit. Do the right thing. You don't have time to think about it, just do what your training tells you to do.

There will be no peace here until these peoples' leaders look in the mirror and see what greed for power has done to them and their nation. I'm here to keep our country from becoming something like what these people have become. It has got to start with someone. Why not start with me?

We wrote and told him that his words testified to the kind of man he was. Some hear of a battle and immediately retreat, but you had the faith to let fear go. Your life is precious, come home to the life you have left; the ship on the ocean and the course charted. We wrote to him every week.

The hustle and bustle in the hallway suddenly pulled me away from the painting. Slowly, as if my legs no longer remembered how to work, I made my way down the hall and out the first door I came to, a door that led to the first level of the parking garage. It was cool and quiet there. I followed the heavily shadowed sidewalk to get back to the office.

Not long after we had been notified that he was missing, we received other letters. Some were from his friends saying how brave he had been. Some said he let himself be captured so that they could get away. Others seem to think he never considered that he would not make it back out from the dark path up the hill. Some of the letters said that he is a hero, and that must be true from the medals that he received. Our letters were sent back in a big box marked "P.O. Box Closed." He had been captured and was now presumed dead.

I emerged from the parking garage and saw the clouds were rolling in. The color of the sky was what we call rain blue. Not a pale blue, but a bright, almost shimmering blue. It was the kind of sky where you know there will be a rainbow stretched out across the heavens after the rain that was sure to come. The "Don't Walk" sign was lit. As the "Walk" sign popped up a wave of people crossed over from both sides of the street. Everyone politely passing each other, each person intent on his or her own lives, like the whitecaps pulled by the tides.

We've been patient. Many years have passed and there has been no word. His watch still ticks the moments by, day-by-day and his office is still the way he left it. His name is still on the door. We want to tell our son's story to all who will listen. It burns in our hearts. Not just for our son, but for all the sons and daughters that are lost. I know the pulse of their lives still ticks in the hearts of their families and friends. We believe that anything can happen. There is no peace, but there is love, faith and hope... Yes, there is still hope.