My girls with their blonde tresses and summer bussed freckles.

Pause hungrily for the procession of screaming fire trucks and,

Inexplicable clowns throwing candy and miles of uninspiring advertisements.

Their immature hands softly grasp a tiny miniature flag.

As their bare feet swing indolently back in forth.

We wait,

In this sticky July sun.

Like broken dolls on a shelf that nobody wants to buy.

Candy is chucked,

Then lands like small stones on the filthy curb around us.

I observe,

Little petite people run.

Their chubby little fingers fight for that satisfying morsel.

As if this was their last meal.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I remind my girls to share.

As people rise for the caparisoned Veterans who traipse proudly by.

The bagpipe clarifies the account through song,

To all willing to pin their ears back and listen.

For a moment.

Just listen,

To the true description of love, war and loss.

Not candy in the street.

Or slapstick comedians in cars.

But freedom, values and family tradition.

Those memories that were neatly framed and handed down to us,

                                   Old sepia colored photographs,

That rest on a bedroom dresser.

People we never knew physically.

Only their story.

Our story.