The Green Shirt

I was three...

when you slapped me

right across my left cheek.

It was the first

and only time

you laid a finger on me...

all because I was playing

with your green shirt.

When you saw it

wrapped around my feet,

hell hath no fury.

I was too young to understand,

that how can a piece of cloth...

mean more to you

than your own daughter?

Then when I was fourteen,

a letter came.

It said that you gave up your life

for that same horrible green shirt.

I was so angry with you.

I still didn't understand why.

Why would you do that to your family?

I turned twenty five a few months ago.

Presently I am

marching down the border,

in a similar green shirt.

I am aware that

these may be the last thoughts,

that I ever think.

The last footprints,

that I ever make,

The last breaths,

that I ever take.

And finally get it.

I get what that shirt meant to you.

I get the responsibilities embedded in it.

I get the burden that comes with it.

I get the pride I feel after wearing it.

I get why everything comes second to it.

I get you.

But a selfish part of me still wishes

that you were here

to see me wearing

my Green Shirt.