She’d been sitting in her chair,
his picture in her lap.
Startled!—she awoke!
Guess she’d had a little nap!

She’d dreamed that he was near—
tho she couldn’t see him clear.
But she felt his love—so dear—such a joy—
that loving, laughing little boy—
all grown up now—a fine young man.

“Grammy”

She thought she heard him call her name.

“Sonny?”

Why, she didn’t know, but she remembered the game,
a little game they’d played when he was young,
and a silly little song they’d laughed together as they’d sung.

Brightly she began—

“Oh, where are you going, Sonny Boy, Sonny Boy?
Oh, where are you going, my dear Sonny?”

She thought she heard a sigh,
and then a soft reply—
“Grammy—I am going to Iraq
and I fear I won’t be back.
That’s where I am going, my dear Grammy.”

Hesitantly, she continued—

“Oh, where have you been Sonny Boy, Sonny Boy?
Oh, where have you been, my dear Sonny?”

She strained to hear another soft rely—
“Grammy, I have been to hell and back.
I was wounded in Iraq.
I am so sick of the killing, my dear Grammy.”

Reluctantly with pounding heart, she asked,

“Oh, where are you now, Sonny Boy, Sonny Boy?
Oh, where are you now, my dear Sonny?”

A pause—then so softly she almost couldn’t hear—
“I am with the angels now, Grammy dear, Grammy dear.
I am with the angels now, my dear Grammy.
Pray for peace soon in Iraq,
Don’t cry for me, for I’m never going back.
I no longer can go back—
I no longer can be sent back—
to the killing in Iraq.
Can’t be—
Sent back—
Killing—
Iraq.”

Her tears began to fall.
She knew she’d get a call.
Her dear Sonny Boy was never coming back.
He’d died far away—in the killing in Iraq.

Written for the International Day of Peace Program
presented at the Alamogordo Public Library
on September 22, 2007

© Nola Jones: all rights reserved