Old Jason
remembered how he used to carry his son
on his shoulders.
Those were the best of times.
The laughter,
mischief.
Running out of breath.
Miniature hands grabbing his head,
pulling his hair.
Tiny feet tight against his chest.
Years went by.
His son grew taller,
stronger than he ever thought possible.
Same laughter,
mischief.
But Jason could no longer carry him on his shoulders.
The flight from Kandahar
landed at CFB Trenton.
Jason saw his son
getting off the plane.
Carried on the shoulders
of eight of his comrades.
(Editor’s note: poet Shai Ben-Shalom, an Israeli-born biologist, examines current events in the Blacklock’s tradition each and every Sunday).
