amphibi.us

At the grave-site we sit and wait, five of us, his family and friends. It is
sunny but cool. The flag droops at half-staff. Far away, snatches of a
meadow lark’s trill flutter over the hum of traffic.

The hearse rolls to a stop. The driver gets out, opens the rear door and
releases the coffin. He stands to one side, his right hand over his heart.
The coffin, draped with a burial flag, contains the shredded flesh that once
was Bubba, most recently known as Private William Richard T—.

Sergeant (1), Casket Team (6). Dress blues, sharp creases, white gloves.
Attention!

Firing Party (5). Present Arms!

Casket bearers march to grave. Stand to Attention facing casket. Lift flag.
Hold waist-high over casket. Chaplain (Captain), kind face, graying hair,
holds Big Book open in left hand. Speaks in soft bass voice. Benediction.

Chaplain and Sergeant. Attention! Hold salute.

Firing Party. Attention! Ready! Aim! Fire! Volleys (3). Present Arms!

Bugler (1), away off to the left. Taps. Crisp. Clear. Piercing.

The last note hangs, fades like a moan, a sigh becoming air.

Casket soldiers fold flag lengthwise. Snap. Snap. In timed sequence, fold in
triangles. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Sergeant takes flag, perfect triangle.
Hands it to Chaplain, who goes to seated older woman. Presents flag to her.
Pronounces, “On behalf of a grateful Nation.” Salutes. Departs.

I stand away over here and remember Bubba, about to assume his very own
space in the rows of gleaming white markers on this manicured grass, a whole
army of markers in perfect lines and intersecting columns, all the way down
to there and up the hill, fixed in eternal Attention on that Final Parade
Square.

Bubba. I remember him well—a noisy, messy, dirty, loud-mouthed slob, who
lied, cheated, stole from his own family, who owed everyone money, who
slept, puked, pissed in his clothes, all the time hollering how unfair the
world was.

Hey, Bubba, who would’ve believed the Army could transform you—to come home
so neat and quiet.

© O. Talpash, 2010