Memorial Day

My father was a Marine.

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To all the Armed Services that keep us safe, thank you, and for those that did not make it home, gratitude.

Memories of my father, dressed in his uniform, coming home,
evenings, shinning his shoes with that spit shine asking us if we could see our reflection.
And then one day, he was gone, off to war, I still remember seeing him walking down the street
duffel bag over his shoulder with my two dollar bill hidden inside, a secret message scribbled on it, bring this back to me.
He would call home every now and then, us living on that base filled with the unknown
always on the news, the casualties of war, waiting for his phone call, that seemed to always come on a Wednesday.
Can you hear me, over.
We miss you dad, over.
I’ll see you soon, over.
Always on the news, the casualties of war, the protest in the streets, the calmness on my mother’s face, as we lived our lives on that military base surround by marching soldiers preparing for war.

And then one evening, there he was, like a Christmas surprise, like the scene you see in war time movies
My father,
standing at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in his fatigues, duffel back over his shoulder with my two dollar bill hidden inside.
He was home.

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