To remember is to imagine
a mother washing
her soldier boy’s clothes
making sure he hasn’t
forgotten anything
as he packs
to go.
To remember is to imagine
a father pulling
his son into a man hug,
swiping his tears
before he steps onto
the train
that takes him
away.
To remember is to imagine
letters that shatter
lives,
names on lists,
unwanted visits from men
in uniform
living in a constant state
of dread, waiting,
waiting for word
from those
who went.
Was it a stronger constitution
that motivated people
to make such life-altering
sacrifices?
To give up everything
including their
very lifeblood
for strangers?
To fight a war that had
no direct bearing
on them?
Or did they see
freedom for others
as freedom
for all?
I once visited a death camp
where the sky wept
puddles of tears,
where dying had become
normative,
etched into the very stones
where people became
experiments
instead of souls
the undesired
at the mercy of monsters.
And in this place of darkness,
evil, hate, and fear
where stories cry out to be heard
to be remembered
not forgotten,
redemption
finds its way
as flowers grow and
moss creeps in where
angry boots once
trampled.
