We ended up here by accident,
not knowing John Otto named it Gold Star Canyon
to honor mothers of sons who died in World War I.
Not only is today Mother’s Day, it’s my son’s 19th birthday,
my son who is fighting age, but has not been called to war;
has instead been called home from college
to wait out the coronavirus pandemic.
He’s been listening to a World War I podcast,
and we’re watching 1917 this afternoon,
so our presence here feels serendipitous.
We talk about the war
as we climb the steep trail that winds around
boulders, cactus, and Utah juniper.
He tells me about the rats and bleakness of the front,
about the yellow, toxic pools of water —
sometimes the only thing to drink even though
it was burdened by the bodies of dead soldiers.
As we talk, I notice a few tiny white daisies clinging
to the dusty soil, blooming despite the drought
like small, delicate snowflakes,
and I wonder if there were any little miracles
like this at the front.
It’s the kind of day a soldier
would look back on with fondness,
when time and words float by as easily
as the bright white clouds in the azure sky overhead.
I gaze up at them and wonder how I got so lucky
to have my son at home telling me about a war
instead of being lost to one,
and I feel myself start to flutter into bloom
like those tiny white daisies
despite the drought, and despite the pandemic.
I bloom for all those mothers
who lost all those sons
and never got another day
like this one.
- Gold Star Mothers - August 24, 2022