the practice of remembrance
He sat cross-legged,
back straight, head up,
on the floor
of the gymnasium,
attending—
And being just six and a half years old,
was altogether unfamiliar
with the practice
of remembrance: the call,
at the eleventh hour,
for silence, to open,
let the ritual,
the rote grief of a nation,
break inward—
So he couldn’t,
and didn’t,
could only rupture
the moment
with a wide, loud,
involuntary yawn,
parody of boredom
and disrespect,
and the cause
of immediate hilarity
among others too young
to imagine men and boys
brought low
by bayonets—
But he was not too young
to be called up
to the principal’s office,
to be dressed down,
head bowed,
and know,
for the first time,
the fresh steel edge
of a ruler against his palms,
to have opened for him,
in addition,
a wholly different occasion
for remembrance.
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Each soldier once a small child, too soon molded by the consequence of even the most innocent action. Taught to expect pain.
“…the rote grief of a nation break inward-“
Excellent.