Memorial Day
 
Forgive me now as I set aside your words
and not strain to see you in the photo in my chest. 
Just twenty-one, far too young to be sent off
to a conflict deemed our war you called
in final writing a private kind of hell:
“Even if I could get away I’ll never be the same.”
 
But you will always be the same one I knew,
looking for something unsullied. Remember how you pushed
that drunken man’s car on a cold, knee-deep Pennsylvania night,
how we walked and talked about life, and it struck me
when you said what you most desired,
and how you reached out so gently.
 
Then you went—your objections conscientious yet untimely,
and you ended there on an eve of descent just beyond the Zone.
Your fright seared my heart, leaving a wound that pulls apart
every time I see one so young dressed for war.
 
Yet, decades have passed, and on this morning
I think you would pardon me for putting your words to rest,
to leave your innocence fresh—too callow for me now,
though just beneath my skin this will always be ours,
this simple study on the purity of terror.

 

 

 

Sarah Anne Shope has a passion for narrative in poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction and essay. Her credits include The South Carolina Review, The Montserrat Review, Palo Alto Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Highlight for Children, Childlife, publications of The Mennonite Publishing House, and Hispanic Outlook for Higher Education. She teaches Global TESOL (training for international and cross-cultural communication), creative writing and literature. She has taught for The Margaret Mitchell House and Museum and various colleges and university in Georgia.