They were still huddled at the cemetery (several family members) when the sun had barely set, the cold face of the moon showing, it was winter in the Midwest of the United States, the year 1914: the old man, Corporal Anton's father, inside his head, he heard bugles, they rang and then ceased, the sounds of guns reverberated, then ceased, as if bouncing from one lob to the other inside his skull. He, like his son, had been in war; his was the Civil War, unlike WWI, where they had to live in trenches throughout the war: it had almost faded from his memory, now brought back by the funeral.

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