Over the years he could recall Memorial Days, hearing and watching old men tell stories about something far back in the past, something they could remember well, some incident long ago, perhaps when they were soldiers or an event they wanted to relate to family, something that had been significant to them and in memory still was. But their families were not interested in another story from old men. Family members would walk away or begin talking to each other, ignoring their old men, until the old men realized no one was paying attention, and embarrassed they would turn away. In his youth, he had felt embarrassed for them, too. Pathetic souls who had grown too old and who had lost the respect of their families and ignored by those around them. Now this youth has grown up and shipped off to some forgotten war and in time with the passage of years he too has grown old and finds himself trying to communicate with his family, trying to relate an incident of his youth, but some walked off, some started talking among themselves, ignoring him, turning their backs, knowing, hoping this will silence him, as if to say, "We have to overlook dad." The old man remembers such incidents related to him by his mother, how her in-laws, used to ignore her in conversation and how he was embarrassed for his mother. Now all the chickens have come home to roast. It is his turn to feel the embarrassment of being squeezed out, of being ignored. Someone who lives in the past, who repeats himself too often, someone whose short term memory is often flighty and not present when needed. The old man no longer drives his car, he no longer has need of one. He takes short walks down hallways, with his walker, wearing his portable oxygen like a spare source of energy. He makes the rounds in his nursing home, visiting one then another. He knows he will soon crater under the weight of his illness or old age, which tends to work like gravity, pulling him down. He knows his life is about over and he knows his family knows it too. So what's next. How nice it would be to roll back time and regain some dignity instead of this nursing home, a mere warehouse for the dying. Only one way now to redemption. Dignity will slowly return with time after his own induction into the Eternal Order of Ancestors. He leans on his walker, looks out a small window on times past, and waits for the bugler to sound his taps.
A poem on the reach of speech: …we note the first word….and the last…aghast. A thousand yaps are worth one pic…we love to squawk. At first we imitate adult’s …baby talk….later please them with a word…of our own. Never taught to listen…ever. For now, our words do not…fall on deaf ears…this will go on for years. Until one day we speak alone…in company with other’s words…mixing as one…noise. Boys will be noise. …at last we find a can of ‘word polish’….and apply with a tongue…liberally. Vocally…we are “there”. Soon, we are skilled at speech…eager to talk…to teach …the world’s masses…gathered in classes. Until comes old age…the last stage of …speech…. no longer within reach. One day…what we have to say becomes….irrelevant to the world’s ear. Sad, but true…they do not want to hear me squawk…baby talk.