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A month before the crash
you phoned, and in our own
way we assured each other
that our brotherhood,
born of a working relationship
which generated mutual respect
and then finally friendship,
was too great to be stifled by
enlistment and a trip to Italy.
The day we buried you, brother,
was overcast, muggy. The clouds
held our grief close to the ground,
it clung to us, adding weight to the air.
It is this weight that slowed my anger,
this weight that stayed my hand and tongue.
For this I apologize to you.
You who scolded me in my darkest hour,
"Do the right thing."
We ached to honor you, to carry you on our
shoulders one last time. But you understand
how it works. The Navy sent over six
enlisted sailors, strangers, local men and women
chosen for their exceptional service, pressed
uniforms, promptness, polished shoes, waxed floors.
Paid for their time. They carried you that day.
The day, its weather and weight,
had no sway over them and so
late in the service, I turned and
saw one turn to another, whisper,
and then stifle a snicker, a laugh.
Were you disappointed in me?
I said and did nothing.
ISAAC SHARRETT
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