O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain…for purple mountain majesties above the fruited plain…
The wind ruffled his hair as he stood at the top of a hill, looking out over the rolling green hills that were covered in neat rows of white stone markers. Trees in the distance provided shade for the others who had also chosen this location, this particular place, to remember the sacrifices made by others in order to protect the land and the people who called it home. Quiet music drifted through the air, echoing softly as if played by a long-gone orchestra.
America…America…God shed His grace on thee…and crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea…
By each marker, a small American flag stood proud, blowing slightly in the breeze, accompanied by flowers and other trinkets to show love and gratitude for the soldiers buried below. With his head held high, Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America, slowly walked between the rows, his hand outstretched to reverently brush the top of each tombstone. Silent tears slid down his cheeks to drip onto the neat uniform he wore, his bomber jacket discarded out of respect and formality.
O beautiful for pilgrim feet whose stern impassion'd stress...a thoroughfare for freedom beat across the wilderness…
These brave men and women were the reason he was alive, the reason his people had a place to call home. Without them, he would have dissolved long ago. Without them, he may never have existed at all. He owed them everything, and it didn't matter how many times he visited the cemeteries, how many hours he spent walking among the graves or how many grateful prayers he said, in thought or aloud. He would never be able to express how truly grateful he was to each and every one of them for laying down their lives to protect him and his people.
America…America…God mend thine ev'ry flaw…confirm thy soul in self-control…thy liberty in law…
Some of the other nations thought he was silly for calling himself "the hero" all the time, but he didn't think it was a laughing matter. He didn't do it for himself, even though they thought he did. They considered him arrogant and too young to understand the hardships of the world, but these graves were proof that he understood all too well. Alfred knew he himself wasn't a hero. He'd made his mistakes and hadn't always been brave enough to own up to them. But he would rather his fellow nations call him cocky and immature than let the bravery of his people, of these fallen soldiers, go undeclared.
O beautiful for heroes prov'd in liberating strife…who more than self their country lov'd, and mercy more than life…
It was the fallen soldiers who were the real heroes, and the soldiers who lived and continued to fight on to protect their home and those who needed aid. The soldiers who spent weeks, months or years overseas, halfway around the world, fighting for something they believed in so strongly that they were willing to die for it. They were the heroes, and perhaps Alfred's wasn't the best way to show how proud he was of his people and how grateful he was to his fallen soldiers, but it was the best he had. And, once a year, his entire country joined him in that endeavor.
America…America…may God thy gold refine…'til all success be nobleness…and ev'ry gain divine…
Alfred reached the end of the row and turned to begin walking down the next. He paused, silently observing a small family only a few feet in front of him. A woman and two boys, one very young and the other in his teenage years, stood before one of the graves. The woman, presumably the mother of the two children, was crying as she carefully placed a bouquet of pure white roses in front of one of the markers, though she was doing her best to smile. Her older son looked on somberly, his expression controlled save for the shine of tears just starting to break free. The younger kneeled in an imitation of his mother and leaned forward to kiss the stone, which only served to make his brother and mother both smile and cry harder.
O beautiful for patriot dream that sees beyond the years…thine alabaster cities gleam undimmed by human tears…
Moving slowly, Alfred approached the family and crouched down, meeting the woman's surprised eyes with a calm smile even though he himself still displayed evidence of having shed his own tears.
"Who was it?" he asked quietly, and the little boy looked up at him with a sad smile.
"My daddy. He went to heaven so we could be safe from the bad guys."
The mother choked back a sob and gathered the little boy into her arms, holding him close; the older boy placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and mumbled words of comfort.
Alfred reached out and gently touched the woman's hand. "His sacrifice will never be forgotten," he whispered sincerely. Then he stood and moved past the mourning family, continuing his slow pacing of the rows.
None of them would ever be forgotten, not as long as the people of America were free, not as long as his people were willing to fight for their home.
America…America...God shed His grace on thee…and crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea…