This is, sadly, a true story.  The gentle boy who walked out of a goodbye party, with his girl on his arm, never came home.

Thursday afternoon, in the middle of mow'n the lawn, he got the news that he was called to fight.
Friday, he went fish'n with the fellas.
Saturday, he drive over to his MeeMaw's house and sat on the porch with her and his hunt'n dogs.
Sunday, he looked so tall and proud.. so brave... in his dress blues. His girl wore white. And everybody took pictures of everybody else.
After church, we all ate with him.  His mama had told everybody that he wanted a pig pick'n; so we all smelled like brown sugar and vinegar-mustard by the time he waved goodbye.
"See y'all!" he hollered out the truck window... "Be good, now, y'hear?"
He was gone a long time.

His girl started see'n a fella from over in Henrico, and his cousin moved into his old room... they needed the help.
When we heard that he was use'n a flame thrower, we stopped worry'n bout him, so much.

Nobody knew how much he had changed.

At his trial, he never said a word.

Firestorm

Thursday night the invite called to come.
To serve the ancient chant of fife and drum.
By that next week he was a man who crawled 'cross deserts far from home.
He'd gone a boy - eyes wide shut -
And left his love alone.

He had walked away alone, alone.
Cause,
In the desert, wrong is right and
Right is all that's left,
When ashes weep, and cinders Whisper, of a life-born death.

In a year, the country boy who knew the wildflower names,
Learned to throw hell's fire, and the scorch of sand and flame.
The thrust of fire to fix the path Became his truth, his prayer, his
staff.

He cleared the path alone, alone.
Cause,
In the desert, wrong is right and
Right is all that's left,
When ashes weep, and cinders Whisper, of a war-born death.

The story goes - four years later - He found em both, up in the stable.
His fire, that night, lit up the host!
Their screams, in flame, were lost.

He swept their path alone alone.
Cause,
In the desert, wrong is right and
Right is all that's left,
When ashes weep, and cinders Whisper, of a love-born death.

©Naomi Marshall 2017