folding the flag

we had a whole unit in 8th grade
about folding the flag & 
flag etiquette. our teacher was 
a vietnam war vet & on days when 
early america wasn't interesting enough
he'd tell war stories. the only
ones i still remember are about
a man whose draft number was next to his--
he said they were standing in line
to get guns & the officer would toss
the gun to soldier to catch but the man
next to him refused to catch it--
each & every time the man would
let the gun hit his body. our teacher
shrugged & threw up his hands, expasterated
& said "a pacifist."
around the room there were portraits of
the founding fathers & they scowled as
we'd fold the flag with a partner in front
of the class. first length-wise until
the flag was skinny & then the one doing
the folding would make the triangle--
folding over & over again until the 
whole flag was turned into nothing more
than one of those paper footballs. our teacher 
said that this would come in handy the
next time we were at a veteran's funeral 
& no one there knew how to fold a flag--
that we would impress all our family by
folding the flag & handing the flag to
the man's wife. you're supposed to say 
"thank you for your sacrifice" which we practiced
at the front of the classroom & george washington
locked his jaw & refused to smile from 
the far corner next to the clock. andrew jackson
ran a hand through his grey wispy hair, staring
forward manic in a war flash back from
Horseshoe Bend where his troops gunned down 
lines of the Creek tribe. i knew there was no 
one in my family who would have a flag draped
over their coffin. we practice again & again until
i began to believe that maybe the moment 
would arise where the skill would be useful.
this went on for weeks, getting up at the start of class
& finding a partner. he told us a story of
the toys vietnamese children made from crickets--
tying a string to the creature's waist &
tugging on the rope while it struggled & spun.
he described using one of these toys not long before he
saw a small girl run towards them with a
bomb strapped to her chest. over & over &
over until there was a triangle-- i wanted
to ask what it was about a triangle that 
made it suited for the flag-- what was it
that made the fold holy & what were we folding?
i went up to the attack where we still have
uncle freddy's triangle flag & i considered un-doing 
it with my brother-- asking him
to let me show him how to fold it. the edges
were hard from decades of holding shape.
the flag shrunk in my hand to the size
of a piece of paper & flung itself out
the window & onto the pavement where i chased 
it in the October wind. it mixed with the leaves 
until it was no where to be found. i never told
my father, i folded the flag & this time lincoln
turned around in his portrait, not wanting to
look at me anymore & the teacher told
us a funny story of his friend searching for a place
to go to the bathroom on a stormy night & accidentally
peeing into the wind-- thunder cracking in
the background. i didn't think it was funny 
& i imagined a boy on the edge of cliff, his body
silhouetted by the storm. in the lightning i can
see the smallness in his face. he makes
triangles out of the clouds out of shame.
i folded my blankets for bed
into triangles, napkins at the diner,
everything i could get my hands on. there was
a man throwing a gun at the wall. there was a doorbell
somewhere. there was empty frames where a room
of furrow-brow men were staring. i fold alone
on my knees & there's the popping noise
of a cricket with a string tied around it's chest.