“Get outta there!”
One didn’t leave.
“Get outta there!”
Things hard to believe.
“One step at a time.”
A voice strong but calm.
He stood his spot,
And gave a hand’s palm.
He wouldn’t have left, though,
Had he been on fire.
Then he couldn’t leave,
From his funeral pyre.
Green smoke,
Burning hair,
Eyes full wide,
Lungs sucking for air.
Just a tough, loyal,
Hard core guy.
Bred to love,
To do, or die.
There is a tiny flag,
At the head of his grave.
Showing he served,
Proving him brave.
In thunderous silence,
It fell one day.
Tiny hands gathered it,
From where it lay.
The same tiny hands,
Put a new one in place.
As two streams of salt,
Flowed down his face.

Poet’s note: The above poem was used in my novel, “Chief Salt.” Much bravery shown by one human for another is never recorded and will never be revealed. In most instances, I believe, there are those who do know what occurred and do remember. How sad that the father never saw the son and the son never knew the father.

James M. Garrett has lived in Benicia his entire life. He is the author of “One Great Season 9-0!,” “Benicia and Letters of Love,” “The Mansion Stories,” and the compiler of “The Golden Era,” a history of Benicia High School football from the 1948 through 1960 seasons. Contact him at Jgstoriesnpoetry@aol.com.

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