The Broken Promise

I remember that Spring morning

hearing the doorbell ring;

a grave, tall man in uniform

stood telling you something.



I heard the cry that escaped you,

as you took the duffel bag,

then, just before he saluted,

the envelope and tags.



Later, as you sat on your bed,

your Bible in your hand,

I watched you stare at Dad's picture,

beside you on the stand.



Six Marines stood at the graveside,

as neighbors gathered around --

the mournful sound of Taps playing,

Dad's coffin in the ground.



Yes, I still see it so clearly,

though I was only five.

My Daddy came home a hero,

but didn't come home alive.



That's why you cried out in alarm

when I told you I must go.

You held my face in your hands, saying

over and over, No! No!



You knew, at last, I'd be going,

after we had our talk,

to that distant, desolate country

where my loved Dad had walked.



With both our hands on the Bible,

unshed tears in our eyes,

You made me promise you then,

I would come back alive.



The training they gave me was hard,

but they knew about my Dad.

and they may have treated me rough,

but never treated me bad.



I discovered Iraq was a hell-hole,

and Falluja was the worst.

I lost my life on the roadside when

a buried IED burst.



But Mom, I did keep my promise.

To my word I'm being true.

Though you cannot see or hear me,

I'll always be here with you.



I am here in the bright, Spring morning

with promises to keep,

and I am that sad contentment

when the sun goes down to sleep.



You'll know, I'm that little movement

in the corner of your eye

and sometimes you'll think you see me,

like a shadow passing by.



I'm holding the Bible with you,

when you kneel to pray at night.

I see you look at our pictures

as you turn out the light.



And Mom, there is a special place

saved just for you on high,

when you finally come to join me.

There, we'll never say goodbye.