Little Soldier Boy
The sun was setting and the sky above was a bright mix of orange, pink, and purple.
Everything was silent and a gentle breeze flew past, causing the leaves of the trees that all stood in a circular fashion to sway slightly.
But on this particular day, the leaves of the trees were not the only ones to sway for there, in the center of the clearing between the trees, stood an elderly man. He was obviously from the fire nation as his robes were as red as the hottest flame. His beard and hair were as grey as smoke and billowed gently in the breeze. He had eyes the color of warm honey, and it was apparent to anyone whose eyes met with his that he possessed great wisdom far beyond even his years.
The man swayed in time with the trees, but it was not due to any passing breeze despite how much he wished otherwise.
No.
This man swayed for an entirely different reason than the seemingly carefree trees.
As the man bends down in front of a stone covered by the picture of a young man who bears an unnerving resemblance to himself, his reason for swaying becomes apparent.
This man is swaying not because of the cold, but because of grief, of loss, of guilt, and of the pain that only comes to a parent who outlives his or her child.
This is the reason he sways so helplessly.
Because a father should never outlive his son. It is supposed to be the other way around and no one knows this better than this man.
He should be the one six feet under, not his beloved son. Not his pride and joy.
And as the tears run down his forlorn face, and as soft sobs rack his body, a gentle tune passes through the man's lips. It is sad and haunting but all the same it is beautiful and soft and it is his lullaby for his eternally sleeping child and so he will continue to sing it over and over if he has to.
This man loved and still loves his child and he will never ever stop. This man, no, this father will never forget his son and he will keep his son's memory alive for as long as he lives.
And even as night falls and the incense he lit earlier goes out, this father's love will remain bright and steady.
Pure.
Leaves From The Vine
Falling So Slow
Like Fragile Tiny Shells
Drifting In The Foam
Little Soldier Boy
Come Marching Home
Brave Soldier Boy
Comes Marching Home
Those Leaves Did Grow
From Branches Overgrown
Drifting Slowly Down
Resting On The Loam
Little Soldier Boy
Taken From Home
Forced To Fight A War
That's Not His Own
Leaves From The Vine
Falling So Slow
Like Fragile Tiny Shells
Drifting In The Foam
Little Soldier Boy Says
"Carry Me Home"
Sleeping Soldier Boy
Is Carried Home
R.I.P. Mako Iwamatsu.