He handed it to me as though it were a treasure,
And I held it as though it were precious.
I could feel the embroidery
The stitching, the silky nylon.
It was folded tight like a package
Ready for shipping or like a container
To keep it from running away.
Not its usual shape, flowing free and wide
In the wind, now it was a triangle of blue
No red showing, no life, nothing like you.
The officer who handed it me,
His face beneath that soldier’s hat
With its shiny black brim,
Looked at me with experienced sad eyes.
I was looking in his for you.
The world caved in, I leaned on the casket
My tears were falling
People helped me up. I had lost control.
Nothing seemed to be real. I was
Spinning in a dark place, unbelieving.
This morning I had planned my clothes,
My shoes, my jewelry. I stood in
Front of the mirror smoothing the black cloth
And looking at my hair, looking at my face.
I remember turning and looking back at myself
And thinking of you.
I watched your casket go down.
Then I was in the car. The back seat.
We were leaving. I looked back, they
Were clearing the grave site, your grave site.
I was leaving you there. I was crying again.
Alone.
There was nothing I could see through
My eyes awash with grief and worry.
You, dead, gone, buried. That flag.
I was still holding that damned flag.
Some of the folds had come loose
From my clenched grip.I dropped it in my lap
And looked down. There it was
Streaked, wrinkled with sweat and tears,
Some red showing now.
I had messed up the tight folds.
I wanted to say, when he handed it to me,
I don’t want your fucking flag.
I want you back. I want you back.
As the car turned onto our street
And I saw our house our driveway
Coming, I started to tuck the folds
Back together, to make it look better
I tried to smooth its neatness back.
You would not like it
If it were not nice and neat
And tight and official looking.
I wanted to say, when he handed it to me,
I don’t want your fucking flag.
I want you back. I want you back.
When I walked into our house
I was carrying it hard pressed
Against my heart, against my breast.
Bill Purdin: 6/12/11