My Life

(or)

What Beren Told Lúthien (After the Tenth Time She Asked Him)

“I do look like my mother,

But I have my father’s hands.

Sword hands, he called them, 

He looked at them every chance he got.

He was a fighter, was Da,

Smooth-sharp-shining sword,

Even when he was

Nowhere near tidy.

A weapon is a grand thing, he’d say,

And Mother she’d smile at him,

But ne’er did she agree.

You have to face it though,

We’re different.

We’re naught but dust compared to you,

Smaller, weaker, much less wise,

But we have to grow faster,

Fight sooner,

Die sooner.”

He thinks about his father’s sword,

And how it used to hang,

A mirror to the left, another to the right,

And ill-pleased his mother,

Who, for all her courageous ways,

Would rather she were left

Alone, and in peace.

“Whenever she could,

Ma filled a bowl with apples,

And let it stand by the side of a shelf.

I’m crazy about apples,

And next to it she had a jar of wildflowers,

Thin, delicate, quick-dieing,

Ma was crazy about them.”

“I wasn’t too old when she left,

All skinny, awkward, ‘bout to cry,

She pulled me close, said:

Stand hard, stout-hearted son,

Be brave-bold-strong-wise,

Your father will need you.

We discovered a lot

Of things, just by living hard.

Clothes burn really well, and so do

Chairs,

When you can’t go out to chop firewood ‘cause

There’s an Orc horde in the way.

I wasn’t around when Da died,

But I got back soon enough

To get the Orcs that did it.

Maybe we’re just mortal,

Maybe we’re different-weaker-smaller,

But we protect your borders for you.

Don’t we deserve a little respect?”

And what he likes best

Is that she nods,

And he knows she’s understood everything he’s said,

And some things he didn’t say too.

FIN