Memento Mori
He didn’t talk about
the red-orange flag
or stained knife
the military pistol
or handful of coins
each with a center hole.
He held them separate
paced dark nights
in silence.
When I was grown
he might have spoken
but I was deaf to history,
even his.
Memories marched
beside my father,
beyond the Styx,
left me with his cross.
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