A free-verse poem about visiting a grave by a young boy.

Every Saturday back in the 1950s
when I was a young boy, I rode
with Mommie and Uncle Homer
to visit my Uncle Walter. I never
knew him, only his grave.

Mommie carried fresh flowers
each visit. She would discard last
week’s dried up flowers, rinse out
and refill the in-ground container
with fresh water, and then lovingly
arrange her flowers. She always knelt
in the grass beside his grave,
even though she had arthritic knees.
She’d linger awhile, then return
to the car dabbing at her eyes
with a handkerchief. I wondered why
she cried week after week.

Uncle Homer would wait somewhat
impatiently in the car, fiddling with
the radio and glancing at his watch.
I explored the gravesites nearby,
wandering farther afield with time.
Mommie always lingered too long.

On the trip home came the reason
I accompanied them weekly.
A small grocery store-filling station
provided my reward – a RC cola,
into which I added a package of
Tom’s salted peanuts – a treat from
Mommie. It made the wait worthwhile.

When I asked Dad who my Uncle Walter
was, he grew pensive, spoke slowly,
“Walter was my best friend growing up.
He was your mother’s and your Uncle
Homer’s brother, Mommie’s son,
and he was the best man I ever knew.
He was Mommie’s favorite child.
Everyone who knew him liked him.
He would have had a great life.”

I thought of the boxed picture of a young
man in uniform, against the background
of an American flag neatly positioned
around it, proudly displayed on Mommie’s
living room mantel– the only image I ever
carried of my Uncle Walter.

I remember asking, “What happened to him?”
Dad replied, “World War II. World War II
happened to him. He volunteered to go
fight Hitler’s Nazis in order to preserve
America’s freedom. He only made it to
Bloody Omaha Beach on D-day. A mortar
shell fell directly on him, blowing him apart.
War takes the bravest, the best of a nation’s
young men, robbing the world of their future
contributions. Walter was one of those men.”

I recall thinking it strange that Uncle Walter
died at the beach. Then it occurred to me to ask,
“If he was blown up, what’s buried in his grave?”
Dad’s reply: “Nothing much but a lifetime of
memories and the love of those who knew him.”
I thought it odd that every Saturday we rode
to the cemetery for Mommie to cry, kneeling
beside an empty grave. Today I understand.