Note from the poet:
This poem was written after the author witnessed the tragic homecoming of a 23-year-old Marine who had been killed in Afghanistan. Although she didn’t know the young man, she was deeply touched by the gathering of the people who came together to line the streets as the motorcade accompanied this young soldier on his final journey.
Over the years there have been too many of these homecomings; they have become woven into the fabric of our lives.
Memorial Day is a time to remember all those who didn’t make it home, the ones we knew and the ones we didn’t and to think of their families and friends and remember that their grief endures long after the ceremonies are over.
The Fallen Soldier
Flags line the streets.
A flag-draped coffin
taken from the arms of a plane,
a young man, a boy, inside.
Flag-lined streets.
Officers in uniforms salute
a black motorcade crawls
through his hometown.
Townspeople line the streets
hands upon hearts.
For a day
he is our son, our brother, our friend,
a soldier known and unknown.
For a day
we watch and bow our heads,
wipe away tears,
for a boy, a dream, a nightmare.
We walk down the flag-lined streets,
pause before heading home,
we speak in hushed tones
searching for fragments of meaning
in the ash of tragedy.
We watch the day
replayed on the evening news,
the flag-draped casket
the flag-lined streets
the flags suspended overhead.
We sigh and pray, go to sleep.
Morning brings sunlight
A new day.
Across town
a cavernous silence,
a carefully folded flag,
stacks of newspapers,
unopened envelopes,
the thick perfume of funeral flowers,
the raging surf of sorrow.
Across town
Mourning comes to stay.
-Elizabeth Tragash
