To My Dad

 

 My Dad would sometimes start to bring up memories of when he was sitting in a trench somewhere in Korea, waiting for the enemy to fire upon them. I could see he was there again, reliving the sounds, the bitter cold and the fear. We listened for awhile, then ran outside to ride our bikes and build forts, chase fireflies into the night, never once feeling afraid or aware of the sacrifice my father and others made to quell a dystopian nightmare.

Today we honor those who gave their lives to fight for freedom. My father came home, but, any innocence or naivety died on those frozen fields.

I wonder what my Dad would have thought of Donald Trump? My parents were lifelong Democrats. I once saw a photo of my father at the Chicago DNC as a volunteer. It didn't register then how meaningful that moment was. I want to think he would shake his head as he read the Sun-Times in disbelief as the very ideals he and others fought for are being shredded and annihilated by the whims of one greedy, ugly, mindless sociopath who lied and bribed his way to the highest position in the country. 

We are manacled by a man who called soldiers, losers, a heartless, empty soul who blamed John McCain for getting caught, imprisoned and tortured. 

I'm glad my Dad isn't here to see this. I cry because I am sickened by my own inability to do anything. I'm sorry, Dad. I am so sorry.