I Remember

I.

You pinned a poppy on my jacket, 
hands firm, calloused, 
made me promise
never forget
the stories of your dad – 
his missing fingers clasping 
rum filled glasses
his memories of trenches
blood-mud fields
and a lost brother. 
I was four – 
I will remember. 

When he died, 
you thought – 
it looks nothing like him
face glued into submissive
peace eyes forced shut
under foreign hand 
a rosary webbed through 
his fingers placed to hide
the stubs of his lost three. 
He loved the violin
you told me – 
I will remember. 

He was in Europe at sixteen, 
father in his twenties. 
I heard, after the funeral 
that he beat you to forget
his pain, hit you harder
when you refused to cry. 
I saw you cry
hands shaking, tugging 
at your new suit jacket
standing at the front of the church
surrounded by your eight siblings
missing one
you cried the hardest –  
I will remember.

© Lindsay Foran