Elijah Blumofe

 

Cenotaph

 

When I was very young, my mother first took me to the White City.

The pride of our race, that gleaming pearl in the sand.

Marble gates ablaze in the desert sunlight, blinding in glory, bound either side by gilded lamassus, ferocious in their dignity.

Paralyzed by sensation, past ivory cobblestones and sandstone titans, my mother guided me, like some eudaemon, into the vast epicenter, the city square.

And there, my child’s eyes beheld the monolith.

A pale, terrible obelisk, so large as to darken the sky.

Shrouded in its shadow, fear then took hold of my heart.

Engraved upon it were countless scratches, innumerable scars.

Names.

Twisting perversely, etched over one another, crudely borne, chiseled with the trembling hands of fresh grief.

Memoriam is left to those who cherished most, she said.

Those left behind.

Gazing upon this sea of souls, my lip began to quiver, and my eyes welled.

For I knew, drowned among these, were letters that formed the name of my father.

Immortality. Obscurity…

In the shimmering heat, the stone seemed to bleed.

Above these mutilations, where no widow could reach, were carved those words the State had seen fit to display with some decorum.

Do you see? My mother gestured to the same.

Yes, mother.

Read to me.

I summoned strength to my small voice, and began:

 

Arise, O Ares! Look hard upon your children as their bones meld with the land.

Look hard, and see your land fed with glory.

Gaze upon us with pride, God of War,

for we are your first sons.

Masters of the spear, yet you were ever master of our fate.

Death was never our king, for we spat in the face of Death.

Never did his mortal whip, the one they call Fear, compel us into slavery!

Rather, O God, was your spirit ever within us, and so did we become immortal.

Our names bleed from the wounds of the fallen, condemned to the dust.

Our names bleed from the eyes of our women, bent, but never broken.

Our names bleed from the mountains, from the rivers, from the shimmering sea that was our greatest joy to look upon in life.

Our names bleed from the songs of our Homeland, ever attuned to glory.

Our names bleed from the mouths of our children, who shall whisper our names in gratitude and awe.

Our names bleed from the minds of our comrades, those who yet survive, yet take our phantoms with them.

Our names bleed from this stone, and thus does blood, cheap as dirt, common as water, become sacred, the elixir of eternal life.

Remember us, O Ares, for it is men such as us who allow you to exist.

Remember us, and the enemies of our children shall tremble.

And you, countrymen, as you tread upon hallowed soil, look to the sky, and remember.

From paradise we shall meet your gaze, with love and honor always.

 

I felt my mother’s hand.

Time to leave.