Lament to the Lout Who Went to Arlington

 

A bugler plays "Taps" during the group funeral of 12 servicemen who were missing in action from the Vietnam War at Arlington National Cemetery. (photo: Charles Dharapak/AP)

 

 

John Cory / Reader Supported News 04 September 24

I would have told you to tread gently in these gardens of stone. This hallowed ground is not a stage for conduct unbecoming.

It was born in the grief and pain of a broken-hearted nation in Civil War. It’s origins, humble – a potters field – without ceremony or honors – but driven by the principle of “no one left behind,” it became a place for the fallen, no matter how near or far away, to be brought home and laid to rest. To be remembered and honored.

I would have told you that the only words that matter here, are: “On behalf of a grateful nation…” – nothing else. You have said enough already. Let silence be the tender cradle for memories of lives loved and lost.

I would have told you my best friend, and brother Medic, is buried here. Fifty-five years on, I still live that day, still feel the slick rain on my skin, and smell the wet sour tranh grass and brackish rice paddy water. It’s September – a Friday – rainy season – late afternoon – quiet – too quiet – even the birds hiding in jack fruit trees know that death is coming.

It’s real, and it’s a dream – and it never changes. Pat dies in my arms and I wear his blood on my hands and fatigues for days. I cannot escape the acrid smell and briny taste of his death – even now.

I would have told you that Arlington National Cemetery is America’s sacred garden of sorrows. It must be tended with care.

A jovial Trump gives the thumbs-up sign at a veteran's grave site in Arlington National Cemetery where photography for political purposes is strictly prohibited.  One more example of his disregard and disdain for those who sacrificed their lives fighting for our country.