"SHE WAS JUST SEVENTEEN"

(For Ansel Morse, my best friend: Killed In Action June 8, 1970 in the former Republic of Vietnam.)

 

Rain trickled from atop the canvas on to the ground before us.

It was a dreary day.

 

I could not distinguish the crowd's sorrow

from the earthen heap around me.

But it all seemed fittingly appropriate, somehow.

 

Folding chairs were being wiped-down for those who had long ago purchased seats...

that no one else desired to claim.

 

The people's faces, forlorn:

dressed in hues that darkened the day, still.

 

They came and went, as embrace followed sentiment.

They would stop and pay homage to, I know not who, but a memory,

for the warrior's here—but gone.

 

But it seemed awfully kind.

 

In the midst of worlds apart—between clergy and the crowd,

Men groped for substance in the words they spoke.

But they clearly, dearly spoke in vain.

It would have been far better to call for their salvation,

than to have eulogized one whose heights are just as reachable...

with the Lord.

 

But still, they do not get it—bless their souls!

 

In the distance, only comrades dare to take the veteran home.

To David's seventh heaven he shall go, and doth now even tread.

To David's seventh heaven he shall go, and doth now even tread.

 

But then, I heard the bolts slam home.

Each one of the rounds startling everyone, a bit more.

 

Each command and its subsequent response brought

but another jolt…

another memory…

another tear.

 

A baby began to cry, as did his mother,

as handsome men in color removed and presented her the fold.

 

I can see Clearly now.

 

O Lord protect them, for my wife is but the child.

O Lord protect them, for my wife is but the child.

by: R. Christopher