Every year on this day of days
They take part in a ritual
the significance of which
Only those haunted by these
particular demons understand
Or have need of
Each one is as revered as any goddess
And travels as far as it takes to visit
The same sacred place; a site indigenous
To those who die while serving
Their country
With unspoken intentions they converge
As if gathering at a summit, each one
Carrying a flag folded to the exact
Specifications as each other one
They have no need for further elaborations
It is Mother's Day - these are the mothers of dead sons
and they meet here annually—
to remember their boys;
It is the only time they allow themselves the indulgence
of so much remembering, rubbing their memories like the well-worn beads on the
string of a rosary
They store their commonality and strength, the courage
they take from each other, fit for another year.
S.E.Ingraham©
