Velociworld

MEMORIAL DAY

Strangely enough, all nations, from democracy to totalitarian regime to Stalinist hellhole all have one thing in common. They all have Tombs of Unknown Soldiers. Those poor bastards who were blown apart, shot between the eyes, fucked in Life's great lottery, their remains even unknowable. Who are they? Their survivors, parents, spouses, get a telegram, a visit from an impeccably groomed officer, they are gone, missing, of the ages.

And somehow remains accrue, unaccountable, and they are buried with much pomp and circumstance. Unknown Soldiers. Monuments are wrought, penance paid.

That is what Memorial Day is to me. Yes, the uncle I lost in World War II, yes, the God-rotted poor bastards my uncle slew in the fields of Holland, the chilled mountains of Korea, the steaming jungles of Vietnam. But moreso, the unidentifiable corpses that never met solace with family, the poor toe-tagged corpses that never had hook-up, communion, with their beloveds.

Remember the uncollected, the unburied, the uninterred on Memorial Day. The horrible unidentifiable, war's cruel detritus.

And remember Afghanistan, and Iraq, and the brave children, for they are children, that fight those wars.

My grandparents were younger than I when they lost their son in World War II. That is a sobering thought. I bow my head tonight, and pray for the lads, the lasses, that enforce our politics.