i.

History is being lost:  those that fought
for the stars & stripes are dying in record
numbers.  No Wall records their memories,
no memorial lists their names:  only yellowed
bits & pieces of stories remain, passed down
from father to daughter.

ii.

I remember Daddy talking about the war, but
can't remember what he said.

iii.

I asked him, Are we related to anyone famous?
He said, Your Uncle Duke was a survivor of the
Bataan Death March.  There's your hero.  Uncle
Andrew (we called him Duke) was a POW for
1,224 days.  When liberated, he weighed eighty
two pounds (on a six foot two inch frame).

iv.

How I was to know?  He never talked about it.

v.

Fragments of tales told of battles on the ground
& in the air float in the fog of my mind.  Part of
the puzzle is missing:  why won't it come together?
It's as if their history stopped with me & it shames
that I've forgotten.  I wish I had written it down so
their service wasn't in vain.

vi.

I followed in their footsteps, joined the service.

vii.

I've forgotten mine.  No Wall records my memories,
no memorial lists my name:  only yellowed bits &
pieces of stories linger, to be forgotten when I die.
No son to pass what I remember on to; no legacy
to carry on.  Just a dog tag for someone to find
someday & wonder whose it was ...

viii.

... & what it would say if it could talk.


(c) 2009, Karla Dorman (4/6)