You were born flawed,
The youngest of thirteen in the rural Midwest.
A farm, but your father, a teacher,
You never learned to read.
Two of your brothers became priests.
You farmed.
You never married, you never moved.
Until your seventy-sixth birthday
When you had to sell the farm…

Your companion in old age,
Your widowed sister. Before that, your widowed mother.
Together you mourned the passage of time
And went to church every day of the week.

You have to have been to a place to understand it.
You are these forgotten fields.
America moves to the suburbs, and these fields
Once the backbone of America
Our pride and joy…
You lay forgotten. Ignored, the soil and earth
We were founded on
You, you just toiled away in quiet.
Milking your cows at 5am every morning,
After ten every night,
Every single day.

You flew your flag high, replaced it
When the winds that whipped across the plains unhindered
Beat it to shreds
Loved, proud, you flew it high.
Every single day.

Thank you for being there,
For letting me remember.