Golden rays of sunshine filter through green leaves,

lazily dancing in the warm spring breeze.

Bird chirps suddenly quiet;

a sharp crack of a seven shot volley

cuts through the otherwise peaceful cemetery.

Two more cracks make it twenty-one shots.

Another person is being swallowed by this sea of stone and earth

I’m sitting here beneath an old oak,

listening to a soldier’s story of his dead comrade,

watching this American hero tear up remembering his friend

who died too young.

As I walk over to the grave of Matthew Pucino,

I think back to when I was younger.

I slept overnight on an old battleship,

playing tag throughout its heavily armoured decks.  

oblivious to the fact that this huge ship shelled Casablanca,

wreaking havoc on the ports

and businesses

and homes.

Only seeing the hole in the deck armor as a close call,

not the destructive explosion the rocked the ship

setting it ablaze

threatening the lives of the sailors onboard.

And I hear a cannon boom in the background,

twenty-one times.