Poem From Aaron Espy

Dear Guy Sr.,

It is extremely hard to write a poem for someone I’ve never met. Although your memories of your son Guy Jr. gave me some insight into his life, I still know very little about him or you. I was going to wait to write a poem for you until later when I had gotten to know you and your son better, but I started writing and this is what came about.

If you don’t like traditional poems like this (some people call it greeting card verse), I can try writing something in free verse. (That’s where the poem doesn’t rhyme). You’ll notice I used a fictious station nine because I don’t know where you’re stationed in Tulsa, or even if you ride an engine or ladder. The poem’s beginning is based on the assumption that you are an engine company officer.

If you don’t like the poem, don’t feel bad about it, or feel like you have to tell me you like it. I’ve written some truly good poems, and some that belong in the trash can, and many that fall in between. The danger in writing a poem for someone so special to someone else, like Guy Jr. is to you, is that the poem will not be a good one. Then on top of all the pain you carry, now you have someone who’s made a clumsy attempt to say something nice about your son and failed miserably.

If you like the poem, let me know. If you don’t, it’s okay to let me know that too. I can try something different if you’d like, or we can just skip it all together. In any case, don’t be a stranger to my internet address. If you need someone to talk to, send me an email. I don’t know your pain firsthand, but it sounds like we share a common faith and a common brotherhood in the fire service.

Hang in there, brother

Aaron Espy

Green Grass Memory

A false alarm, we’re headed home,
the engineer turns right,
and drives the pride of station 9
through evening’s falling night.
We pass the streets of modest homes,
the cars parked in their drives,
And every time I see their lawns,
my memory of you thrives.
I see you everywhere I go
there’s no place I can turn,
There’s not an evening dusk descending
where your memory does not burn.

You were a perfect gift from God,
when I was yet a boy.
You were my firstborn, handsome son,
a father’s fullest joy.
From toddler to a budding star,
my National leager to be,
lefthander with a rifle arm
professional of my dreams.
The raucous crowd derailed you son,
they led you far astray,
but then you found the Lord
and headed down His narrow way.

I wish that He could tell me why
he had to take you home;
Why I can only see your face
in a tearstained picture frame.
Someday, somewhere in God’s beyond
I’ll see you once again,
and then I’ll hear the final answer
to this terrible pain.
Yet through these tears we’ll make it, son,
Your sister, mom and me.
I know that’s how you’d want it-
for we’re still a family.

(Firehouse poetry for Guy Rutherford, Sr.
In memory of His son, Guy Daniel Rutherford, Jr.)

Aaron Espy