Vichy   The reckoning came later, after lines had been crossed, choices had been made that could never be unmade — blood betrayals, signs twisted toward the wrong roads. They had good   reasons — so it seemed at the time. The war . . . they would mutter, after, their voices trailing off vaguely, wanting to shut that door and keep it shut — rebirth behind a veil   of memory grown dim. Some felt the sting of shame. Some lied until they could forget they’d ever said yes, just kept fingering their lies like rosary beads, silver chains set   with precious stones, polished to a dull shine and mumbled in the small rooms where they sought absolution. Some drowned their lies in wine and smoke.                    The others, they never forgot.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont April 2017