A Hero's Stone

This is dedicated to my uncle and hero, SSgt. Charles E. Owens. It's a bit long, but worth every word.

A Hero’s Stone

The flag was never meant to be raised alone,
neither laid to rest unseen.
I will always stand at attention
with the cloth pressed to my heart,
as the Music fades away.
His last words run through my hands
slipping away into the ground.
The bugle sounds--
cracking the last shred of my strength,
raining soft bullets onto the grass.

One phone call made
never answered
Red then Green then
crash and Sparks then
shouts and flames
alarms then a silent chest.
A knock then silence.
Then gasps and sobs.
Brokenly told, pulled
through stuttering lips.

Expecting numbness,
the piercing brought it all
crashing down.
A brave smile holding
tears at bay.
Grieving in red, white, and blue,
then grey and black cloth.
Gathering together relieves for a time,
broken together we are somehow whole,
but each heart bears the pain alone.

Stark white rock out of lush green,
eagle, globe, and anchor etching
the heart of a hero in stone.
A cowboy melody speaks of the past,
and the voice of an angel reminds us of a future.
Stoic faces masking devastation,
lift the joyous burden
if for only a brief moment.
Laying in peace,
leaving only pieces behind.

Hugs and silent tears
sobs and blank looks
One shovel full.
Then another joins.
Sounding of finality,
soil on wood and metal.
Is it over?
Please make it stop.
Then it’s done and we wish
to hold on a moment more.

Walking away,
No one know where to.
Of course back to the church, the house,
climb into our cars.
Back to our jobs and families and school
and the rest of our lives.
But never the same.
Leaving him in the ground
but holding him in our hearts.

But the story doesn’t end,
can’t stop,
the memory will never cease.
Riding a horse,
watching a John Wayne,
hearing the rev of a Camaro.
Seeing the uniform--
paralyzes me in grief,
yet prods me to run and embrace
each one.

Trudging uphill in the rain.
It’s his voice pushing me forward.
No time for excuses.
No room for weakness.
No excuses for lies.
No weakness that can’t be made strong.
Slipping and stumbling in the mud,
his voice swims before mine:
You ARE good enough.
You are STRONG.

Climbing out of the car,
stepping through the grass,
reverently touching the white stone.
Finally letting the tears
soothe the ache.
Curling into a ball,
rocking, nearly praying,
wishing he was here.

Here to counsel and teach.
Here to see the changing world.
Here to tell me to suck it up
or let it out.
Here to see me fall in love,
and to help me sweep up my broken heart.
Here to ride off into the sunset.
Here to bring music back into the house.
Here to watch her dance and play.
Here to march at Her side.

A flagpole,
cookie dough ice cream,
that old cowboy hat
and shiny revolver.
And his music--
Oh, the Music.
All the music in me
crashed with him into
that earthly plot,
suddenly silenced.

His music is everywhere.
Everywhere.
In Nana’s voice and the cowboy yodel.
In the angel’s song.
In Elvis and Sousa,
the morning wake-up call,
the evening lullaby.
I can’t sing anymore,
it isn’t right.
All the music belonged to him.

Sprawled out on the grass again,
turning brown this time of year.
Wishing once again that he could
tell me the Answer.
As if there was only One,
to a single question.
Tracing the worn letters,
outlining the man above and below.

Some days run like clockwork,
others seem broken.
Waking up just before dawn
with a streaked face
and damp pillow.
Even now, as the days,
and months,
and years go by.
Never sure if we, if I,
will ever stop mourning.

One day, with another’s hand in mine,
I will make the oh-so familiar
walk to the weathered stone.
And I’ll introduce the rest of my life
to you: The hero.
To my music,
to the one who showed me
how to find that love;
the love that changes it all
back to how it was always supposed to be.

And one day I will hold
small hands in mine
as I guide them between the rows.
To tell them why they
carry your name.
I will tell of your
mischief and courage,
your love and loss.
And then I will place
their hands on the globe
to feel the heart of a hero.

Someday, when I’m bent and wrinkled,
I will find my way
back to the music.
I will hear the horns and drums
as my cheek brushes the grass.
And you will hear the words I whisper,
ever so softly, ever so true.

“I did not forget you.
I always came back.
You asked me to be true.
So I did as you asked.
Semper Fi.
Always Faithful.”