Encounter at the Grave

Encounter at the grave

I waited fifty years for this day.
To be standing by your final resting place.
I drove over six hundred miles to finally say goodbye.
Searching row by row, getting anxious, nervous, and bleary eyed.
There it was, a gray marble tombstone with your name
carved in it.
I reached out my hand to touch it, crying.
At a loss to understand why
you, my brother in arms,
Were picked out of all of us
to be the chosen one to die.
I placed my fingertips on your name carved
in marble so cold and still.
Tracing your name with my fingers
trying to swallow the bitter pill.
I looked up through my tears, praying
for an answer which made some sense,
feeling a comrade’s spirit touching me
with his lingering essence.
I thought I felt his hand, gently pressing,
resting on my shoulders so tired of war.
I heard him, too, there behind me crying.
Asking, “What were we dying for?”
Leaning my head against his tombstone,
I had no answer for him.
In this place were spirits linger
torn from the battle dark and grim.
I placed my hand on his, clutching
in silent communication, reliving
the vision of hell on earth
watching our buddies dying
blown away through jungle grass
wondering what could we have done
to save their ass.
“Why isn’t it my name, I cried.
Emblazoned there on this tombstone?
I heard him whisper, “I love you for that.”
Then felt his hand move away.
With swollen eyes, I turned,
to face this friend behind me
but there was no one there at all.
I felt a chill run down my spine
as a warm breeze brushed my cheek.
I looked up into the evening sky
and saw a white puffy cloud go floating by
without a care of earthly things below.
I envisioned his spirit floating there
free from the sounds and scenes of dying
owning the world in which he flew.