Male - 23 Years Old
We counted up these branches and leaves,
Taking for granted our growing family trees.
The weeks slinked by while the years snuck behind
The distractions of our everyday to day lives.
Our resolve lost itself in the shuffle and
These daily phone calls lessened every week.
Soon we were leaving Sundays for the growing cities,
Passing over Christmas at home for New Years in Albany.
By the fall of '45, only a handful of us had survived
The teeth of the Depression and the claws of the Wars.
We're still sporting these scratched backs and hickied necks,
And a handful of improper, common southern dialect.
I won't forget you Janice,
Not even in death.