By Crystal Arbogast

I wrapped my arms around the soldier
whose frozen fingers clutched his rifle
as he slept in a trench
somewhere in Korea

I kissed the boyish face
and looked into the eyes
that witnessed the pain and suffering
of a place called "The Punchbowl"

I took the hand that had
guided me lovingly as a child
and smiled at the brow that had
years of worry etched upon it

I led my father to a place
where trees grow tall in quiet green
A gentle whisper in his ear
"Sleep well, my dear, for I am here."