Veteran memorials commemorate our American heroes for giving their blood in the name of God, Country and our fellow man. It’s intended to be a joyous and uplifting ceremony but why do I find them so sad and painful. Yet, I continue to attend.
I never met these soldiers. I don’t know anything about their lives: whether they were husbands who left their women and children behind, or newlyweds expecting their firstborn, or just young boys with dreams of seeing the world. I worried if there were older brothers who stayed back home to care for their families. Or were they the lone son and now no one would carry on the family name?
I listen as each soldier’s name is called; a military salute is staunchly performed; a bell tolls; a flag is placed beside their gravestone. Taps.
Was it the gladiolus bulbs that I helped plant in the Victory gardens and watched grow erect and tall? Or the leaves that I raked or the snow that I shoveled for my grieving neighbors? The pinch on the cheek that used to make me scowl was now replaced by a pat on the head by the once-strong head of the household. The saintly-looking woman who faintly smiled at me with a tear so gently and slowly moving down her soft cheek, as if it too was numbed by the sudden emptiness of her life-giving son.
Memorial Day is here.
I know what time I must be leaving.
I know what I’ll be wearing.
I know that this day my shoulders will be pushed back, straight and tall and I will feel that tear as it slowly and gently makes its way to the ground. For now I must be there for those who are no longer here. – Evelyn Benyo