Memorial Day

The jets just thundered overhead in the Missing Man formation. They flew by very low, I could feel the bass vibrations rumble through me.

I'm a child of the Vietnam era. I silently remember - dead bodies in jungle clearings, a letter from my brother asking for help for a orphanage in Quang Tri, a dinner party in South Ozone Park where a friend home from the war leaped behind a chair in relex duck and cover when a car backfired loudly outside. I remember a college friend who used to shyly carry my books going off and not returning.

I remember taking my children to Fredricksburg and Chancellorsville; walking the lines on a battlefield where the trenches were evident over a century later.

Taps was played earlier. I remember being taken as a child to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier; standing silent, hand held by my mother. Years later I went with Alan and Nick to the Vietnam memorial in Washington. Walked the wall silently reading the names, tears dripping down my cheeks at the loss, the sacrifice. I remember Alan's voice when he told me about Passchendaele.

There are no easy answers for why we march these young souls off to war and sacrifice them to the firey mouth of Moloch. The least I can do is remember.