Fort Logan National Cemetery
My parents are here, my father’s name and rank on one side of the headstone, and my mother’s name on the reverse. 2005 was my last visit there, and I don’t suppose that I will visit the site again now that I have moved so very far away.
Like most, I miss my parents, and that sense of loss comes at very odd times. Usually when my soul is quiet and my mind at rest. I am now steeled with the loss, and the last time I was there, the tears had dried, with only a lonely hole in my psyche where they once stood.
What did cause me to weep was a small band of Viet Nam vets who walked through the headstones, unerringly going from one grave of a fallen comrade to another, all clad in tattered black vests with unit patches and the black flag of MIA’s affixed to them. They silently stood at each stone with heads bowed for what seemed to be an eternity, then moved on through the sea of white stones to the next grave.
I am not a Viet Nam vet. I am a Viet Nam *era* vet. A big difference. But I knew so many of them, and grew up with a few of them. A sizable number of them came home in metal caskets. A few more were missing. Those of them who did come home came to the catcalls of an ungrateful political faction that I have not forgiven to this very day.
I wept. Not the tears of grief and sorrow, however. But the tears of impotent rage …