I received this in 2012, written by a man I am honored to call friend – one of the true good guys who laid his life on the line so that the rest of us wouldn’t have to. Sending all my gratitude this Memorial Day to those who made the ultimate sacrifice. And to their family and friends – thank you; we owe you a debt that we can never repay.
“I wrote this several years ago for Memorial day. Sorry poetry is not my thing. I just don’t have the knack, but I didn’t want to make it a short story either. Do with it what you want to, but please do take a moment on Monday.”
The rain drips off the peak of my cap;
Speckles my vision.
The marching band plays in G major, but I hear only minor chords.
Old Glory passes by and I make the automatic but heartfelt salute.
I attend the ball games and barbeques
But I am not really there.
I want to leave so as not to bring down the party.
I am remembering. Remembering and feeling.
As I visit flag adorned graves I drift to other days.
The older I get the more keenly I feel the sting that is Memorial Day.
The parade of faces and names begins again: Ox, Moge, Vaughn, Chief, and the rest.
All good men. All gone. All cut down violently.
Civilians cannot understand.
I go off by myself. In my mind we prep for another patrol.
We kit up. We check comms. We return to that lethal headspace that our families suspect but don’t know.
I get the thumbs up from the team and we walk the walk again.
The enemy tries to surprise, but we are too fast, too practiced.
Rifle fire, butt stroke, knife blades flashing, lethal hand strikes. We play that symphony again.
We sweep through.
I check my men. Ox, Moge, Vaughn, Chief. We are all here. They are fine.
Consolidate, prepare to repell, call it in. We are victorious because the only realy victory is living through it with your brothers. Else is failure.
Politicians and civilians think otherwise.
Lord, forgive them their ignorance. We die that they may keep it.
Academics pose irrelevant questions about the good men on the other side. They too have family.
I care not a whit. I neither mourn their losses nor revel in their death. Their death that is my fault.
What do academics know of death, life, and brotherhood? Such things are not in books. They are in gunfire.
I see my brothers thru the smokey veil now. I try to walk through but cannot.
They go back to their patrol base and disappear back into the rain as Old Glory passes by.
I smile the grim and sardonic smile of every grunt.
I have been left behind again. They go forward.
I will see them again next year.
Taps sounds. I am asked if I want another hot dog and which game I want to watch.
The meat is tasteless. I mechanically watch the game. The centerfielder is good.
Chief liked baseball, I recall.
Memorial Day – thank God it only comes once a year.
“Running from fear is more painful than facing it.”