In Memory of Major Marie Rossi-Cayton by Peter Mladinic

You love a beautiful sky.
She did too, the first American woman
to die in the Persian Gulf War.
She wasn’t in combat when her Chinook
went down. I think of her bravery, sacrifice,
honor we bestow on those with no hands
to hold it, as if it were a folded flag.
She was unborn

when I was in fourth grade.
Her brother sat up front, wore the white shirt
green tie I wore, the girls green jumpers.
She too loved the sky
with a love that got her to be part of war.
I stood in a corner a half hour up front,
I faced the wall.
I was ordered there and obeyed.

You’re a girl who loves a beautiful sky.
One morning I sat in your father’s office
and he, the Dean of Students suggested
I apologize to students
for having lost my temper in class.
I don’t recall my exact words, they
wouldn’t be quiet. I used the F word,
up front, beside myself.

Your dad didn’t mandate, but clearly said
an apology was in order. He said it
in a nice way, understood my side,
which didn’t excuse my out of control.
I did a few things wrong back then,
but I went back to class and apologized.
What became of the brother of the pilot
I don’t know, but his younger sister’s story
is part of his town’s, also our nation’s.

I barely knew you that day I sat across your
dad’s desk. He listened well. I recall my
silence that half hour in the corner,
the teacher’s Roman nose, the brother
a round teddy bear of a boy in a white shirt,
a green necktie. Major Rossi-Cayton
smiles in her uniform of death.