I know I’m suppose to put up a picture of some ceremony from some where depicting the military member, the flag of these United States and row upon row of white head stones.
I have a problem with all of that.
It’s been three days of constant drumming of those types of scenes. It doesn’t really seem real sometimes at the programing coming across the airways, the TV. . . and, yes, sometimes from the Vets themselves.
It isn’t that one doesn’t remember a great many things; some that people consider bad. Quite probably those thoughts and memories are true – if not, anymore, entirely accurate.
It is becoming difficult to visualize a face, gone, not forgotten, but gone. More real are things done with the gone. A touch, an event, a shared experience.
Those things remain; and in that way the gone are present, real, living.
So, quiet time of contemplation; perhaps casual conversation, a shared beer, or meal. Not necessarily the pomp and ceremony so dearly entrenched in the fabric of the American “Day of Remembrance” is more apropos than guns fired without aim and the over stylized and overly exaggerated slow respect of gloved and spit shined uniforms of honor this unit or that performer bunch.
After all the deaths of the gone was a micro-second of explosive force or the dull thwak of a bullet hitting flesh, and in some cases the silent slipping beneath the waves, weighted down by deemed necessary gear to which the unit didn’t really need – after all the man, the gun and the bullets were about all that really mattered in the end.
So it isn’t the hoopla, nor the ceremony, the noise and blaring horns and drums. It’s the quiet and softly spoken “Hey. Remember . . .”.
From the reaches,