Once a year, she brings out the well
Packed medal case, wrapped up
With an American flag, stored with
The rest of his memories preserved.

In the basement, of a cool damp spell.
Storage not meant to forget, boxed up
With less chance to misplace them with
The uniform he wore, as well served.

Hung and placed throughout the house,
A husband, a father of two, who died up
In his aircraft alone, in a war painted with
The surprise of death, closer to ghosts.

Carried up to the place, where in the house,
She unwraps the case, slowly opens up
To view the purple heart, never pinned with
The other medals of his uniform hosts.

There they last held each other, their stares,
The sofa, now more a living room, kept up
As if for his return, and to present him with
Her diamond hand, she’d smell Old Spice, close.

Her, the two children, remember the bright stars,
In a December, the day before he woke up.
The fear, all at lost, or is it then to be with
A loosing battle, the rest in pain, for only those?

The two, too old then to carry upstairs,
They carried her through life and up,
To places they remembered, all with
Their hearts, before, then and for those.

©2007, Ron Globe