No Tears

At Bunka's grave again, we pull in on the white gravel and park under the white pine trees at the edge of the cemetery. She discretely looks over at me as we roll to a stop.

I know what she is thinking. I know what she is looking for. My grandfather's grave is here, and she is watching my eyes for tears.

This is it, I tell her, pointing to the gravestones sitting in the shade in the grass amid ajuga and already-bloomed lilies and blooming hastas.

We walk up the hill. I pick up some sticks and rub the gravestone lichen off the top of one stone.

Then we leave. Gone for another year.

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Fairlawn Cemetery, Walkerville MI (summer 2002)
3:29:31 AM   permalink: []   feedback:   comments: []  

Moyers

I don't have a TV. I can't watch the difference that he's struggling to make. I can read this speech that he gave last year.

But this is their game. They're counting on your patriotism to distract you from their plunder. They're counting on you to be standing at attention with your hand over your heart, pledging allegiance to the flag, while they pick your pocket!

2:38:47 AM   permalink: []   feedback:   comments: []