Well, the day is mostly over, and after quite a full one, I'm sitting down to write. It's an interesting thing, driving my grandmother to my brother's place - in 90 minutes, you can hear a lot of stories about people and places you never knew, and realize just how much living a woman of 92 has done. It's really very impressive. Anyway, today's poem is brought you courtesy of Grandma.
After the War
The menfolk came back,
there wasn't enough housing for them.
We stopped building so many homes
until after the war.
We tried to find a place of our own,
because you couldn't live in that temporary housing
forever.
Bob found a place and we settled in
After the war.
But there were no washing machines.
All the metal was being used to make bullets.
(I know it's true from the factory-shortened
bayonette from grandpa's M-1)
I was in line for one,
but the blind man beat me out for it
after the war.
He went to work for the police,
it's just a different kind of soldier,
but one that was needed
after the war.
(I listen intently to all she says, because
there's no one else I know
who can tell me these stories.)
No one is left alive
after the war.
Thank you to all our men and women who have served our country, in wartime or in peace. Your sacrifice should be a lesson to all of us who have never really known the hardships of generations past.
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid
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