The Quiet Hero

He looks around, disgusted at what he sees.
So much pain, so many lives gone.
Gazing up at the soot-filled sky he wonders
What would make someone do this to another?
Not long ago he was with his love
Assuring her he would be all right.
Telling her to look after herself,
Because he couldn’t come home
When there was so much to be done.
Trying to ignore the sights and smells
He thinks perhaps he made the wrong choice.
Maybe he should have stayed
When he had the chance.

Gathering his courage
Dusting off his resolve
He steels himself to the horrors
And moves through the carnage
Looking for survivors.
Under the eaves of a worn-out shack
He finds an old man,
Tears running down his face
Leaving tracks on his ash-covered skin.
He asks, “Are you hurt? Are you in pain?”
The old man whispers, “We all are in pain.
We all are hurt by what has happened.
But my wounds run deeper.”

To many it would have seemed a small thing
The wound the old man had.
In the face of such a heinous crime
He lamented the loss of his name.
“My family is gone!” he rasps.
“No one of us remain.
When history dulls the memory
And the survivors are gone
None will know that we, too, suffered.
They have erased my ancestors.
I am the last – the very last – of a proud
And noble lineage.” And he cries.

He sits with the old man for a while
Listening to his stories.
Placing a hand on his shoulder,
Trying to console him
As he tells of sons, daughters, mothers, fathers.
He promises he will do what he is able
To make sure none will forget.

Time passes, and the old man cries no more.
He folds the bony hands on the withered chest
Knowing he will remember this clearly.
As the months pass and the pain dulls
It remains foremost in his mind.
When the day finally comes
And he is no longer needed
He steps through a front door.
Amidst the chorus of overjoyed voices
As his children happily meet him,
He gazes lovingly at his wife and says,
“We will have a new name.”