Palo Alto City Hall
December 31, 1990

Abandoning hibiscus, chardonnay, cabernet in the back
seat of the car, my daughter and I park just off Hamilton
and hurry.

We join others bundled, straining to understand the urgent
voices disembodied, unamplified in front of the square.
A pasty woman proffers a sad smile—

Her corpulent mouth, lamenting eyes—nearly hidden
by her floral babushka. She carries a cardboard box
strung around her neck—

Distributes thin white candles, little paper coasters to
protect our hands from wax tears. We grasp tapers,
join others huddled around a park bench—

Complain of lethargy, denial in husbands, friends— talk disjointed. Perhaps it is the blue moon, perhaps the sight
of our children grown to killing age that unnerves us.

My daughter, newly 18, greets several tall ones home on
one of the last days of vacation. They are celebrities to her— returning warriors.

They speak quietly of draft counseling, of mutual buddies stationed in Saudi, old mates from grammar school,
high school plays, church choirs.

My daughter wants to sing. Candles are lit one by one.
The names are read— 82 dead already. We remind
one another of the size of the force, the age—

Youth certain of immortality— fumbling around, heavy equipment. It’s like a small city. I reminisce. A friend
blows frost, leads my eyes to a young boy man—

Not yet eighteen— any time with long golden hair,
dangling ominously in one solid wave over his candle.
He hears no names— leans over, religious,

Touches drips, rolls fluid fire slowly between his thumb, forefinger. Minutes passed as names continued. 4
Johnsons in the list, 3 Browns, 2 Smiths.

Sounds scatter. Light disperses with the crowd.
A few remain, walk around the block, bearing
the flame in an unsteady procession of hope.

I cannot find my daughter— encounter a man whose son
and grandson live in the Middle East. We see his daughter
and mine around the block in another square.

An old couple transfixes them— he in a pea green beret
and coat places a hand on the long grey hair that covers
her right shoulder.

She waves a placard— bearing the words “Peace and
Justice.” We finally sing “We Shall Overcome.”
My daughter is satisfied.

A youth from Earth Day coalition, blond, fit in California— perfection—curls— phrases about alliances in April.
A matron takes the bench, speaks of an underground
network in Germany— harboring GI deserters.

One gorgeous man shakes his dark curly hair
And twice begins anti-war rap, interrupted by
an ambulance. A World War II veteran, with long
greasy grey hair tells us to listen to sounds

Frequent now in Saudi. We hear not injuries—
but death. We pass flame back and forth.
Cold wind threatens to extinguish it.
Our car is near.

My daughter’s blue grey eyes, long blond hair
illumined within, holding both candles—
tendrils of desire, upon her lap.

We drive home where our passions burn in peace.