The Memorial day weekend, actually. When I was a little boy, it meant the start of the summer vacation season - weeks spent at Aunt Louise's resort at the lake - endless summer days spent playing - waiting for those who'd left for 'vacations' to come back and play - Relievio played until way after dark - bounce or fly played in the street on bright summer days where the sun was so strong the reflections off the cars made you squint - hot nights with the screen in the window, hoping a breeze would come into the room and cool you off. Sweat on the pillow - days spent in the cool dark of the Atlantic Theater watching double bills over and over, and then your body was somehow unprepared for the fact it was dark outside when you went home. When I was a little boy. Now I am a big boy. Too big by a long shot. And the things summer means are different. And Memorial Day is different. There are names on The Wall that mean something to me. There are bodies in the ground that went there too young. They should be fat and old like me. They should have kids and grandkids and cars and mortgages. And life. But they don't.
"Find the cost of Freedom, buried in the ground", part of a lyric, in a song sung by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.