my mother and I,
we’re here behind a World War II vet
who sits on a stool as we wait in line
(it folds up into a cane)
and I think
it’s Memorial Day
and I remember both grandfathers
already buried,
their triangularly folded flags
now tucked away
just as the quills we are about to see
have been put to rest

he smiles, chuckles,
shakes the tour guide’s hand
and introduces his children,
grandchildren, great-grandchildren
who have all driven here from Baltimore
so he can see this

we enter Independence Hall
and my mother takes my hand
for just one second
but it is long enough
(almost long enough)
and as the tour guide leads us into the room
where six feet in front of us
the founding fathers swore to thirty years of secrecy
pledging their honor
for the greater good,

I see the veteran take off his hat
and wipe his eyes with the back of his hand
(I can almost feel him wiping mine)
and I think how my mother hasn’t said
one unkind or critical word all weekend
and how modestly George Washington
won a war and spoke words and led the country
and how all these years later we are still
trying to defend what was written in this room

while the tour guide struts with a framed,
fake version of the longest lasting laws
any country has ever known,
and the vet puts his hat back on,
puts his arm around his wife,
and leads his family into the beautiful sunshine
of the city of brotherly love,
another generation of freedom fighters
listening to every precious word he has left.