Words They Don’t Say

I used to ask him,

when I was a kid,

about the war—

what it meant to him.

~~~

His smile would falter

or alter politely

“Some memories,” he’d say,

“should stay locked up tightly.”

~~~

Of war, he seldom speaks—

just stares too long

at folded flags

and brush, beyond.

~~~

When Milwaukee would loosen

the lock on his throat,

his silence would bleed—

in haunted, choked notes.

~~~

They called him killer,

they shouted and spit—

played jury or God

condemning his sins.

~~~

He froze mid-sentence sometimes,

as if time rewound

to the harrowing sound of rifle rounds,

to the smell of rain on blood-soaked ground.

~~~

Still, he stands with a Marine’s restraint,

his posture carved from grief and grace.

His salute—a reverent ache,

a staggered breath in the prayer he prays.

~~~

I see the flicker—

the ghostlight shimmer

behind composure

and Marine Corps grit.

~~~

I grew up hearing honor

echo through the halls—

not as glory, but belief

in liberty and justice for all.

~~~

And every year in November’s chill,

I pause, and remember still:

the legacy of love my grandfather built—

with laughter despite the tears that he spilt.

~~~

So I thank the brave,

and I pray for the broken—

for the words they don’t say

when wounds are reopened.

~~~

And though it seems,

the world forgot—

There are those, like me

who simply, cannot.

~~~

I’ll raise my children

to know freedom is precious,

to live by the words,

Semper Fidelis.