Letter to myself at age 11

I know it hurts.
I'm sorry it's taken me so long to arrive.
First my armor didn't fit properly,
and the dwarf had to bend it and bang it
and re-solder it I don't know how many times.
And then my first horse died,
and my second horse got pregnant--
I didn't even know it was a girl--
and my third horse was stubborn and willful
and was always galloping off
on it's own personal adventures.

And then, I could barely hear your crying
in that closet you got lost in,
buried under pillows
with the door locked behind you.
But something kept startling me awake,
like a mother who hears her child's faint cry
even though she's a thousand miles away.

And I went looking for you
and found you in the photo album.
Your face was supposed to be smiling
for the benefit of the school and the PTA,
but your eyes and your mouth
were wavering on the verge of tears.
And so I held you to me
and felt your sadness.

Long afternoons that drained you
with their crushing heaviness;
sunny afternoons spent indoors
fearful that if you went outside
you'd be hunted down
like a Jew fleeing Nazi Germany.

The Gestapo teachers that shaved your beard
and tattooed your arm.
The American ambassador that turned his head
and washed his hands like Pilate.

The experiments they performed on you,
like a rat in a cage
with no escape from trauma and stress,
no bars to push to bring relief,
waiting to see how long it would take
to break your spirit.

I saw the light in your eyes
that flickered and burnt out,
and I felt the lump of petrified meat in your chest
that you hauled out of bed every morning
like an iron ball chained to your leg.

And I know it hurts.
And I'm sorry it's taken me so long to find you.
But I'm here now.
So rest your head and hush.
Hush and go to sleep.
I love you, little boy.

David Aronson
March 2007