When I was 5 I was liveing with my Grandfather and Grandmother , one day my Grandfather did not go in the field, I was told to wash up and we were going to the country cemetery, a neighbors son was found and sent back for burial after World War II, we drove on the little gravel road and up the winding road on a slight incline up a small hill, rare for flatland La. We got out of the old 40 Ford truck and my Grandfather took my hand, right away I knew this was special, my Grand father never took my hand, Grandmaw had her handkerchief and was quietly sobbing in it, on the hill was a squad of Marines and as we got closer I heard the sounds of the bolts ramming home, the boom was so loud for a 5 yr old boy, I jumped with each volley, then the taps rolled down the little incline over the waveing rice field and I saw for the first and only time my Grandfather cry, his son had come back though wounded but his friends son had not. I often think about this.