A Short Walk

It starts in slow quiet coughs at back of some church.
There is loud squirming on hard pews.
Eighty-year old men and women,
Dressed in navy and reds are helped
to wobble to their sits.  A Gold Star mother
is asked to stand, the oldest veterans are lifted
to hold on to bench backs, I see a sea of gray hair
and realize they are few in number,
“Aging and passed” as Chief voices.

A minister opens with a prayer he reads
from his good book, and I am taken back
to standing at a monument with my father
and a little box he opened up and held in his hands
during those ceremonies he took me too.
I know that box, but not the brother it stands for.

Father was a WWI cavalryman.  His sword and uniform
are kept clean and for show in a small town museum.

The Queen and Canadian Parliament
sent father recommendations, for loaning
five sons to the  Canadian Air Force in England,
during WWII and giving, forever, the middle one.

Today, there was a young sailor who walked down
aisle to go out and stand ready for a parade. 
His eyes haunted me.  He has seen things
I have not had to see.

I thought my sons would be safe.  They fooled me;
joined the Army and the Reserves and I am guilty
of being thankful we were at peace.

Today, a scraggly sagging line of old vets,
memories bowing their heads until they began to march.
Then they paced like young men, raising their flags a little higher
with every memorized face cam to mind.

It ends, but the Vets do not want to go.  They are spiffed up
and camaraderie is easier to fall into than real life.  My Vet
roll sup is VFW flag and comes to the vehicle to have a cigarette.
We don’t talk.  We watch the ladies auxiliary pass out ice cream bars.
Sweat drips off my sweetheart’s brow.  It is not that hot nor march that long.