I remember my mother hugging me and crying. Screaming at the news.
I still leave the porch light on incase he comes home.
I took his helmet to show and tell everyday, explaining where each dent in the red metal came from.
I remember never letting anyone touch it.
I still leave the porch light on incase he comes home.
I remember putting his clothes away, as if he still needed them.
I remember setting an extra place at the dinner table for him.
I still leave the porch light on incase he comes home.
I remember the funeral, the gun salutes, the bag piper, and his gravestone.
I remember seeing the men in their uniforms.
I still leave the porch light on incase he comes home.
I remember visiting the place where he died.
I remember visiting Ground zero.
I still leave the porch light on incase he comes home.
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