Member Poem

The front of the marker

held the veteran's name;

the dates of his life,

Aug. 16, 1939 – Jan. 12, 1960

the field of conflict, Viet Nam.

The back of the marker told

a much sadder story—of the

family member interred with him.

It read: INFANT – His Son,

Jan. 12, 1960 – Jan 13, 1960.

I could not even begin to

imagine the world of pain

that had descended on that

young widow. The stories she

would tell their son about why

his daddy was away for his

birth—suddenly, erased from

her tongue.

The brief burst of joy,

anticipating the letters

that would diary their

son's progress—the thoughts

truncated in mid-sentence.

Her baby's life had begun

and ended before the news

of her husband's death could

even reach her.

One would think they already

had names picked out. This predated

by decades the era of Skype,

and the possibility of choosing a

name together just after

birth. Had she just been so

grief-stricken that the baby's

name would not appear on the

grave marker?

Perhaps that was asking

too much of a young woman who

had just lost the gravitational pull

around which her whole

universe had revolved.

The grave stone gave memory

to the tragedy. She didn't care

that her husband had died a hero.

She didn't know he had died

in a war that officially wouldn't be

recognized for years. She didn't

care about the reminders of tens of

thousands of sacrifices that covered

the hills as far as she could see.

She only cared about one.