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In Sandy Hills
©1968 Gilbert P. Belmudez
A dedication
His name was "Timothy Patrick Weaver" and outside of family, he was my
first playmate growing up in Pomona, California. He lived a block
down the street and I can clearly remember the two of us already
visiting on weekends by the time we were eight years old. My
father was a bricklayer and had left a pile of sand in the
backyard. Something to play in without getting in to much trouble
and it was there we spent much of our time playing war with our little
plastic soldiers. A few years passed and by the early 1960's his
family had moved to nearby Montclair. Then one day in 1968
I read the local newspaper and discovered he had died in Vietnam.
I could never quite speak of the thoughts
that came to mind. O f
the
loss and the fact that there were no real concrete answers to all the
questions of that tumultuous period. "In Sandy Hills" was the
best I
could do as
a dedication to my dear friend.
In sandy hills we shared the dreams that came to us at night
and when morning came we would rise to set our kites in flight.
The sandbox was our playground, the stage of yesteryear.
A place to play our games of war where no one knew of fear.
Toy guns and plastic tanks. Movies, soldiers and John Wayne.
Children learned of victory but none prepared us for the pain.
Years went by and so did peace. The nightmare without the dream.
Why he went and I did not, none knew what fate might bring?
So many went without regret where death would come so soon
and in my sleep I heard him cry, "Farewell!", from a distant moon.
In sandy hills he built his dreams and took them into the night
where he fell and gave us the time to set our own in flight.
Toy guns and plastic tanks. Movies, soldiers and John Wayne.
Children learned of victory but none prepared us for the pain.
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