My father's ashes are entombed at the Mount Tahoma National Cemetery in Washington State. He was a WWII Army veteran.
These images were captured at a Memorial Day service I attended a couple of years ago. It was a touching, reverent ceremony for those who have served. May my father and those many, many others, rest in peace.
What The Living Do by Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days,
some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and
the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is
the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and
the sunlight pours through
the open living room windows because the heat's on too
high in here, and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries
in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And
yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my
coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a
hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What
you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come
and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want
more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a
glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of a corner video store, and I'm
gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned
coat that I'm speechless:
I am living, I remember you.
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