When I Think of Home

Decoration Day 

Memories are buried
under flatstone.

Well-kempt cemetaries, once-a-year mowed by patriarchs in preparation.

Decoration.

Tended now by survivors, the left-behind women.
Unarmed by power mowers, but equally empowered by cans of Pledge and clean-as-Downy rags.

Spritz! Let the Shout be Heard!:

Shine!  They will make clear the dates again, some not So distant.

Women of the family tend to their husband's graves with well-armed Pledge and clean Downy rags.  Shine!  Amid the plastic flowers.

Wipe it off, once a year, now.

Dinner plates, nightly, then, when he was alive.  Scraps of taters, melon, maters.  Compost.

"Take it out to the compost, son, it will make our garden grow strong."

Amid the plastic flowers.

And now she is gone, too, with him below the facade.
under flatstone.

Memories are buried

Amid the plastic flowers.

And the children will not weep.  The weeds may grow.  And God will bless what is below.

God can NOT forget to grow,

Despite the plastic flowers.

And for those of you still here, gracious readers of this altogether sometimes disjointed blog, I leave you this powerul literary quote:

Fred Sandford:  Didn't you learn anything being my son?  Who do you think I'm doing this all for?

Lamont Sandford:  Yourself.

Fred:  Yeah, you learned something.

---Dedicated to the ones who have left us behind, both in military and civil service.  Who make this country great, and something to strive to fulfill their promise of an even greater America.  MJM  Memorial Day 2010