9750. THAT MEMORY WAS UNDER THE POST

THAT MEMORY WAS 

UNDER THE POST

The morning was crinkled like some old

wrapping paper, and I tore what was left

of nothing open. Ribbons went flying. The

first thing that popped out was a grand, blue

sky  -  the kind someone's old grandfather

used to have. The Civil War vets marching 

to the bandshell in half-formation, lame and

shaky now. No one spoke. A bunch of horns

blared - all those old military tunes recalled.

Five women were sitting there, in bonnets,

fanning themselves with paper fans. They

were crying. I knew not why but I had a 

hunch. Times are now and times are harsh,

and sometimes times are trying...