Neatly folded into a triangle
wrapped in a plastic bag
sitting on the top shelf
of my spare bedroom closet
is the flag that once
blanketed
my father’s casket.

Situated squarely
surrounded by green
lies a stone
that states
Veteran.

Anchored permanently
in green-blue water
with a walkway for tourists
on sweltering summer days
floats a steel battleship.

Once told with vivid vigor,
now remembered vaguely
by a distant daughter,
my father’s stories of battles
and comradeship

are
folded neatly,
wrapped carefully,
placed gingerly
on a high shelf
in a dark closet
in a spare room.
The room I use
for storage only.