Yesterday
while scrolling through Twitter
a story about Donald Trump
opened the gates of memory.
Passing through
I found myself sitting
on my grandparents’ living room couch.
How many times did I ask
Grandpa Lapidus
to show me his WWII medals?
When I held the Purple Heart
that he earned
courtesy of shrapnel
at the Battle of the Bulge
I felt a strange and undeniable
sense of pride.
My grandfather was a hero.
And then looking in a picture book of the war
At a line of men waiting for a donut and coffee
He pointed to one and said
“that’s me.”
I stared at the picture
and held that medal
countless times.
It’s been at least 25 years since my grandfather and I
sat on the living room couch.
The couch, my grandfather, and the Purple Heart
are all gone.
And that’s okay.
It’s the way the world works.
As the officiating rabbi at his funeral
I had the honor of eulogizing him
Close to a decade ago.
But even then I’m not sure that I passed through
the gates of this memory.
Only yesterday
while scrolling through Twitter
Thanks to Trump.
My grandfather never wanted a Purple Heart.
I remember him
when asked
gently describing
war
as hell on earth.
And though he never wanted a Purple Heart
Of one thing I am sure.
My grandfather earned it.