I particularly like the first three lines of this poem which so accurately describe a situation that my Aunt Mary and I found ourselves in a few years ago. We were at the veteran's cemetery in San Diego, the one on the beautiful hilltop overlooking San Diego and Coronado Island, and Aunt Mary wanted to show me the grave of my uncle and her husband, Wayne Hearcel Macy, a World War II veteran who had died in 1956. Veteran's cemeteries tend to have thousands of stones and they all look alike, so it is easy to get disoriented while looking for a particular grave, no matter how many times one has been to that grave. Aunt Mary, who had been to the cemetery and to Uncle Wayne's grave on times too numerous to count, quickly seemed to become upset that she could not walk directly to his grave. Eventually we found it, but the experience was quite disconcerting, especially for her.
Michael Anania's verse brought back memories of that search.