Every Memorial Day, I go to the cemetery. 8 years ago, I buried my grandfather. A WWII POW that was held captive by the Germans for 18 months. He ate rotten potato peels and scraps on the ground while in captivity. I remember finding a cassette tape 10 or 15 years ago, he told his horrible story on tape while sitting home alone one evening. I remember him crying and crying telling how they made him shoot and kill the man that was held captive with him, a man that became a good friend for those horrifying months.

The stroke in 1996 made him not able to leave the bed. My husband and I, along with our 3 children, moved in with him so he would not have to go into a nursing home (my grandmother died in 1992, they were married in  1943). I would get so upset watching this man that fought for our country now need me to feed and bathe him and slowly losing his memory and calling me Violet (my grandmother's name).

Now, every Memorial Day, I kneel at that tombstone, and thank him. Thank him for being my father (my real father was never there for me), thanking him for all of the nights he took me riding to the beach and the nature trails, thanking him for all of the ice cream trips. Thanking him for giving all he could, so that I could live free.

I love you, Pop.