To My Grandson TeJuan On Learning Of The Death Of His Hamster

An Essay by Richard Hartwell

TeJuan, life is sometimes far too fleeting. That’s a big grandpa word that means it is too short and over too quickly. I know you are sad and I heard from your grandma that you were upset. I understand, and I feel very badly for you. Some people may tell you that you will get over it, the “it” being the hurt you feel, and they may tell you that the hamster is in a better place, in heaven or with God. Well, it has been my experience that I don’t want to get over things, even the sad things, too quickly. I want to try to understand them, like you, and when I can’t, like you again, I try to learn to accept what I cannot change and to keep the thought of it in my mind to think about every now and then, later. As for the other part of what some people say, about your hamster being in a better place like heaven or whatever they choose to call it, well — I just do not know. And that is being very honest.

Different people all over the world have different ways of thinking about death and dying, for hamsters and for people, too. Some really smart people all throughout history have given a lot of study and sometimes a lot of words to this subject. And they do not have the answers either. Some really dumb people throughout history, and many still around today, seem to think they have all the answers and they are only too pleased with themselves and ready to share their special answers. Sometimes they will even share when you do not necessarily want to hear them.

I guess what grandpa is trying to say to you in his own plodding way is that your hamster is most likely where you think it is. It is there in heaven if you like that idea. Or it is there in the backyard if you like that idea better. Or perhaps a little tiny bit of it is left in your heart. I do not know exactly. I do not have easy answers and perhaps the easy answers are not the best answers anyway. One small thing I do know though is that your hamster is in your memory and in your thoughts. And that is a very good place for your hamster to be.

Perhaps it is not easy for you to think about your hamster right now. It should not be easy. But you will reach a point after more time when you can remember the good times with your hamster without automatically remembering this bad time. That is what makes life worthwhile, even a brief, short life. I wish I could tell you honestly that it is the only death you will have to think about. Sadly, there will be others. But maybe that is also part of the memory of your hamster. He can help you grow up just a little bit more, even if you do not understand things any better. Come to think of it, TeJuan, I get confused by it too. But I am here if you want to talk some more. I love you. Grandpa.

Flashback: An End Piece

A Poem by Richard Hartwell

I see two Vietnamese women, old, walking
Hand in hand, symbiotically connected,
Down a Southern California street,
Years away from the American War,
Yet somehow reminiscent of it;
Sisters? Mother and daughter?
What memories do they share?
What absences do they share?

Hand in hand with rifles slung, shoes tied together, over their shoulders,
Barefoot ARVN soldiers meandered down the highway.
Who wanted to fight? No one! Everyone. Someone?
It was to be a game of politics and posture, pressure and retreat.
Only with the push and prod of outsiders did the game turn ugly.

Paper-doll soldiers ”laughed at by some, related by birth and culture,
Connected by more than sweaty palms and common provinces ”
Were no match for organized masses from the North, or the East.
Divided by the War of Aggression, weren’t they still the same?
So what was the difference? What made their blood run thin?

I am so alien in the presence of these women,
I who should not be here, observing, questioning,
I who still belong deep in their native country, loving.
What do they remember of Vietnam?
What do I?
What do I think of their living here?
What do they?
Together, we three share so much that others will never know.
Too much has passed for us to acknowledge what losses we all remember most.

An end-piece first appearing in the novella “Flashbacks,” featured in Burnt Bridge’s “Those Who Served,” a D-Day issue published in June 2011, and now available in a Kindle Edition as Vietnam Flashbacks: A Personal Memoir.

Mallards

A Poem by Richard D. Hartwell

I saw three glinting
Emerald mallards
Dawning through the sky,
Meandering purposefully,
Above the ground fog,
Sadly searching for a
Lost pond in the mist.

I saw a dead mallard
On the way to work today.

Snowflake #4

A Poem by Richard D. Hartwell

My son’s in love with Snowflake #4,
A twister, a dancer, a skater on parade,
A mini-skirted package of pirouettes,
Whirling, twirling, gyrating to the tune,
Just to the left of the Snow Queen in back.
He is watching her, wide-eyed again,
A Disneyland Winter Spectacular.

She decorates his dreamy show,
While he is longing for much more,
Something he does not yet know,
My son’s in love with Snowflake #4.

While all of this was going on,
I just smiled most knowingly,
And open-mouthed I stare and dream,
Recalling early love: red-haired Fairy #3.

But much has changed since ‘fifty-five,
The Happiest Place has grown since then.
So have I, though aging not so nearly well.
My Fairy of reality has become my Queen.
Flirtations now are only memory as I’m
Surrounded by a brace of grands begging
To visit Disney’s Magic Winter Kingdom.

Scented Sonnet

A Poem by Richard D. Hartwell

Again, encountered you in dream’s repast,
Your visit is for me a nightly balm,
Imbued medicaments for dreams to last,
Until dawn fogs your image with day’s song.

As stars of bethlehem then close at dusk,
I rush headlong t’wards my own audition,
And must again encore my love, and musk
Is scented, envelopes all of my perdition.

Each eve I’m wafted on rose bower’s breeze,
And you and I, with light touch intertwined,
Until you slumber, I caress, and seize
Memories of others audaciously reclined.

Thus unto you my love each night expressed,
Must rising thoughts of others be repressed.

Riverside National Cemetery

A Poem by Richard D. Hartwell

Again I’m drawn, summoned to these monuments of pain,
Drift among the sinking mounds and weathered granite walls,
Memorials and menace, as if cementing my relationship to those
With whom I share a bond and have outlasted inconveniently.
Still softness is broken by the rain, the protests of the mallards,
My shuffling solitude, and moans of unheard memories.
The plaintive notes of Taps ricochets, reverberating in the rain,
As tears strike me randomly, overflowing the banks of my eyes,
Coursing down the channels of my cheeks, unchecked:
Lines etched on stone by thoughts of multiple yesterdays,
Lines etched on my face by thoughts of singular tomorrows.

Quotation Marks

Quotations compiled by Richard D. Hartwell. 

When hate is in the seeds, you can only harvest weeds.
–Ernst Jünger, The Glass Bees

In joined hands there is hope; in a clenched fist, none.
–Victor Hugo, Toilers of the Sea

An eye for an eye only ends up making the world blind.
–Mohandas Gandhi, The Mahatma