Just Another Memorial Day
By Phillip Hance
Just another Memorial Day
Another three day run
Just another Memorial Day
Another Indy race is won
Just another Memorial Day
A chance to have some fun
Just another Memorial Day
They’re faces I still see
Just another Memorial Day
Their names won’t come to me
Just another Memorial Day
They’re lying in their grave
Just another Memorial Day
The lives they helped to save
Just another Memorial Day
The meaning we forget
Just another Memorial Day
We must not forget what this
day really means. We must remember the families of the men and women who gave
their lives for our freedom.
A veteran’s timeless story
By Gary
Tragesser,
Traveling
Companion
On a sticky, hot early morning,
Two of us wait for the ride to take us off
this hill.
Curious, I glance at my traveling companion
Taking note of his faded, baggy green suit
With its torn pocket, pulled buttons, and
scuffed boots.
We are dressed alike.
Avoiding eye contact, I look tor details
And wonder about this man,
Dark complexioned, eyes half closed, staring
straight ahead.
The shadow across his lower jaw shows
That he did not shave this morning
Or maybe not even yesterday.
Looking above his right breast pocket, I note
A slightly darker shade of green
Where a name tag used to be.
An open flap on a pants pocket reveals
The top of a paperback novel.
He's a reader like me.
I
wonder at the book's title.
Lost in this thought, I fail to hear
The steady beat of our approaching ride.
As our dull green taxi settles down in front
of us,
The choking red dust obscures the blueness
Of the sky and the brightness of the sun.
The rotor slows and the dust settles
Over the two of us like a dark red shroud.
Neither bothers to brush away the grime,
Rather accepting it as our due.
I see the crew chief crawl from behind his
machine gun,
Slowly disconnect his helmet cord,
Reach under the his seat,
And withdraw a dark familiar rectangular
object.
Dismounting, he starts toward us,
Slowly unfolding his black package.
As he reaches me, without word
He hands me a corner, and I rise to help open
it.
With care, we spread it next to my fellow
traveler.
Still without comment, we reach down.
I grasp the bloody hands of the man
Whose name I do not know.
Lifting together, we place him gently
In the thick rubber bag that smells strangely
Like a new inner tube that I played on as a
child.
Carefully, I place his hands to his side,
Take one last look at the book he would never
finish.
The helicopter crew chief closes the zipper
Over the man, the book, and the dust.
Quietly we lift the black cocoon
And carry it to the waiting aircraft.
Placing it on the floor, I turn and walk back,
Pick up my small bag and the rifle,
And take my seat on the floor next to him.
Together we fly away, I to an island
Where for seven days there will be no bombs,
bullets, or black bags,
Where each sunset will bring me
That much closer to returning to this hill.
My friend will travel first to have the dust
washed from his face,
Be released from the black shell
And placed in a more comfortable bed.
A flag will cover him now for honor.
He then will travel to his home where
He will never again know the pain or the fear
That so brutally found him this morning.