The Box

In the quiet corners of a father's heart,

Lies a tale untold, a silent art.

A box of memories, hidden away,

Echoes of a past, in shadows lay.

'As he died to make men Holy, let us die to make men free,'

A hymn of battle, a cry of liberty.

Three hundred sixty thousand, brave and true,

Fell for freedom, under skies of blue.

Four hundred thousand more, in a war of dread,

Fought against evil, and in valor, bled.

Yet, in the hush of a father's room,

Lies a tale of courage, amidst the gloom.

A medal of honor, a picture worn,

A cloth shield, battle-torn.

A name, Edward Allen, etched in time,

A silent story, a soldier's rhyme.

A letter of heroism, a battle's tale,

In the Shau Valley, where brave hearts prevail.

A brother named Edward, a father's pride,

A secret kept, in silence, wide.

Each Memorial Day, a father's pain,

Drowned in silence, washed in rain.

A name on a wall, a memory etched,

A soldier's sacrifice, in hearts sketched.

So, let us remember, as Tennyson might,

The silent heroes, who fought the fight.

Their stories hidden, their valor true,

In unadorned boxes, under skies of blue.

"In the solemn words of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, 'As he died to make men Holy, let us die to make men free.' This poignant phrase resonates with the profound sacrifice of the 360,000 Union soldiers who bravely faced death in the pursuit of ending slavery. In a similar vein, 405,399 US soldiers laid down their lives to eradicating National Socialism and the atrocities it committed. These historical facts are indeed powerful, yet they pale in comparison to a personal story that hits closer to home.

My father was a man of few words, often silent and prone to bouts of anger. He was a tough man, hardened by experiences that he kept to himself. As a child, I stumbled upon a simple, unadorned box tucked away in his closet. Inside it were relics of a past he never spoke about: a medal, a photograph, an olive green cloth shield emblazoned with a bold red '1', and another picture of a man named Edward Allen.

The box also contained a typed letter, a testament to bravery in battle, providing a brief account of the Battle of A Shau Valley. My younger brother shares the same name, Edward Allen. My father never discussed the contents of the box or their significance.

Every Memorial Day, my father would retreat into silence, often seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle. His actions spoke louder than words, hinting at a deep-seated pain that he carried. The name Edward Allen is etched on the Vietnam Memorial, a name that coincides with the one found in my father's box and my brother's namesake. I don't know which Edward Allen it is.

This Memorial Day, as we remember the sacrifices of countless soldiers, let us also remember the silent heroes like my father, who carry their battles and losses quietly, their stories hidden away in unadorned boxes, their memories etched in their hearts and on memorial walls."