I woke up early and laid in bed, I just laid there and listened to the birds announce the rising of the sun and the death of night, like Taps, those lonesome bugles that are played at a military funeral!
Memorial Day, If I had a bugle and knew how to play it, I would go outside and pay homage to all the fallen soldiers, blowing air, breathing for all those who no longer breathe, who lost their last breath on the battlefield of some foreign country or the battlefield, of their emotions coming back, but never really coming back!
I lay in bed and thought of the stories! My grandfather, a young boy of 17, whose job it was to bury the dead on the Field of Flanders during World War I.
He told my father,” I had such a difficult time putting dirt over their faces, seeing eyes staring at me, blood, but we had to be quick, war didn’t stop so we could bury the dead. I wanted to give them some sort of respect, so I’d tear up pieces of cloth and keep them buried in my pockets in order to put them over their faces before I shoveled the dirt. It was the least I could do to honor them and the ultimate sacrifice they paid.”