On Memorial Day I called my Dad. I asked him to tell me about my grandpa, James Earl Bass.
I remember vividly the sticks of spearmint gum he would give my sister and I when we came to visit. I remember the the magnets my grandma had that looked like chocolate candies, and just this year I realize that he must have known all along they were fake, but he always acted surprised when I would bring one to him like it was real and he bit into it. But that's all I knew. I was 16 when he died and that's all I knew and I am so very sorry for that. I watched them fold a flag in Arlington and give him a gun salute and now he has a stone that matches all the rest. And at the time his story was the same to me as theirs: silent.
You were a Technical Sergeant in the 3rd Infantry in WWII. Daddy told me you were shot at one point, and your feet froze on a few occasions. And then he choked up; he told me about a letter that came after you died from someone in your company. You were stationed in Africa and were trying to get your men out of somewhere when you came to an area of land mines. The writer said that you told your men, "Don't worry, I will get you through this. You just step where I step and I will get you home."
These stories aren't unique, and they aren't history either; they are still happening today. These men and women aren't fearless, but step on in spite of fear, because they must; and that is bravery.
I never told him thank you.
I never asked him a single question.
And that will always be such a regret.
So every chance I get, I want to say thank you now.
Thank you, Veterans.

Can I be?
Is there the slightest possibility?
With fingers crossed and eyes shut tight,
while wishing on right-side-up pennies.
But for what, and how, and when?
And does it matter?

Who am I?
An organ in need of tuning?
Played on Sundays;
Played for musings.
And somehow loved unconditionally,
Despite my pitch.
Or maybe for it...

Straightforwardly: I breathe deeply.
And that has to be enough.

Sometimes, I think I'm looking less for an answer, and more for the right question.

Rustling
Like any other animal.
The one antlered dear so near society.
The Scrub Jay in the Scrub Oak.
And I, running like some mammal with half a heart
(It beats brilliantly when complete):
Slowly, contemplatively, considering each step
(What if this is my last step?)
I’m wrestling.

What I want is to be contained.
To be pinned down, defined;
Placed in an air-tight container
with no escape for my spirit to seep through.
Because currently I am everywhere.
I am not a body with appendages,
But flagrant emotion dancing wildly.

Please, contain me?

I believe in God.
I believe in hope.
I believe in wishing.
I believe in someday.

I'm not used to being optimistic.
It's actually not so bad.

I watch quietly as all these stories collide interminably and they seem menacing. And my story sits silently, just letting the music bleed through me; the way coffee stains cheap napkins on patio furniture in the city. Or how you seem to effortlessly melt into my body.

And it moves me.