At The Tomb of the Unknowns |
And the Bugle Sounds The Tomb of the Unknowns had yet to actually be a tomb.Hope still bloomed that all the soldiers would be sent home. Still, the dedication was planned no one would know that no soldier lay in empty coffin on that special day. Point was that even the unknown would have a special welcome home. My grandfather's best friend was chosen to play the bugle: to play Taps on Dedication Day. The newspapers showed his solemn stance. The Flame was lit to burn eternally. He told my grandfather the truth of the day; feeling as if he'd misled the world. Grampa said he'd honored the dead, regardless of where the fallen lay. He should be proud to play them home. He gave my grandfather the bugle gifted to him that empty day. Grampa said it wasn't empty to honor the dead, and he'd keep it proudly, forever bright. His friend died in battle; in Arlington rests. We still have the bugle, I brought it with me when I laid a wreath. I swear I could feel it reverberate. Felt like a date with destiny. Full circle it traveled, returned to honor those who now lay beneath the Flame. Twenty-one steps. The sound echos.Honor before all, for tis all that's left when a soldier's fallen answering his country's calling. Perhaps no tombstone bears his name, but the honor and glory are his; just the same. 35 lines |