To Honor…
By AnnieO
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders Fields By Edward Thomas
It was raining that day. And I have to admit I've hated the stuff ever since. Not that I would let any of them know that, hell far as they're concerned I love nothing better than taking a nice long run in the rain. But the truth is I would rather have it snowing so hard ya can't see your hand in front of your face over a small drizzle. Least the snow doesn't drag up things I would rather forget. Yeah it was raining that day, and I'll be damned if I'll ever forget that.
I remember coming downstairs about a week before and finding a strange man standing inside my Grandfather's house. I knew he was military just by his uniform, growing up in a family of them does that. My mom was clutching some note in her hand and crying while my Grandfather was just standing there in shock, well being that I was only six I had no idea what this scene meant or why that stranger turned and smiled sadly when he noticed me at the bottom of the stairs. It took a lot of years before I really appreciated what that soldier's duty was, it wasn't till I had to hand that same message to someone waiting at home for there son or husband to come back that I really understood what it felt like.
Anyway there I was footy PJ's, teddy bear, blanket and all and what's the first thing out of my mouth? Daddy…looking back I'm not surprised I said it I mean I hadn't actually seen my Dad since I was four, how was I to know. Lets face it a man in green is Dad to any army brat out there. Ok so the worst thing that I could have picked to say was…well…said. In a matter of half a second three pairs of eyes suddenly bore into me and I'll admit as kids go I think I took the reaction rather well, I stuck my bottom lip out and proceeded to cry. Well that gave the stranger in the uniform the chance to escape that he had been looking for. My mom walked past me and back up the stairs, didn't even seem to notice I was there. My Grandfather took one look at me and headed me towards the kitchen.
Now as with any six-year-old out there all my Grandmother had to do to get the tears to stop falling was simply distract me. So Grandpa plops me in a chair at the table and next thing I know there's a plate full of German Pancakes in front of my face. So naturally I stop and dig in. Over by the stove I can hear my Grandparents talking and well it was really hard not to notice something was up when my Grandmother dropped a pan full of cinnamon rolls on the floor. I mean she never wasted a crumb after surviving the war in Europe and there was half a dozen uneaten pastries on the floor and for the first time in my life I left a plate half full of food and tip-toed out of the kitchen to find my Mom.
I found Mom in her room, with the curtains pulled shut; she was just lying on the bed softly crying. To this day I can't explain how much that scared me to see her like that. Till that moment she had seemed invincible to me, like some super hero that nothing could hurt. Guess even Super Mom has her weakness. I crawled up on the bed next to her and just watched. I didn't know what to do aside from sit there and well I guess let her know she wasn't alone. I don't know how long I sat there quiet till she actually looked up at me and took a deep breath. She still had that paper the stranger had handed her in her hands and she didn't seem to want to let it go. She took a minute to grab a tissue and wipe her eyes before she took a deep breath and that look that all kids know. The one that tells ya something bad had happened, last time I saw that look it was when my Dad had left. To this day I can remember what she said, but it wasn't till I was older that I understood exactly what she meant.
"Dad isn't coming home."
I couldn't understand why it had upset her so much. I mean I barely remembered him, so I didn't miss him like she did. But I had always expected him to come home. He wrote me letters all the time and Mom read them to me, and he always said "I'll see you soon." when he closed them. The only connection I could even remember with him was those letters and what stories my Mom and Grandparents told me. I knew he was in the Army. I knew I looked like him. I knew he had been gone a long time and it wasn't his choice. And now here's Mom telling me that the one promise I remember him making to me was a lie. He wasn't coming back. I wasn't going to see him again. I hated him for that.
Three days later my Mom woke me up and laid out my good clothes and told me I wasn't going to school that day. Well the second part of that statement thrilled me, until I saw the tears in my Mom's eyes again. I quietly dressed and headed downstairs to find my grandparents also in their Sunday best. The tension in the room was enough to unsettle an ice burg so I kept quiet as I got into the car. The adults were unusually quiet, even for adults and I was to scared to even question where we were going or why I had to get all dressed up. I simply sat back and watched out the window.
I guess I must have fallen asleep, cause the next thing I knew my Mom was shaking me gently and telling me we were there. I hopped out of the car and was surprised to find myself at the airport. I glanced at my Grandfather and I think that was the moment that it all hit me. This had something to do with that paper my Mom had got. I took my Grandfather's hand when he held it out and obediently followed along with him. We went past all the ticket counters and over to a table that was set up off to the side. There were men in uniforms like the stranger that had come to the house. My Mom gave her name and handed the same paper I had seen her clutching in her hands to one of the men. He smiled sadly and led us to a room in the back away from all the noise and people. Inside sat a bunch of long metal boxes, he lead my Mom over to one and said something to her that made her sob. From another door some men dressed in black suits came in and started talking to my Grandfather. I couldn't follow what was being said, but I knew it was important. I watch when the men in the suits lifted the metal box my Mom had been crying over and carried it out the door. We silently followed and waited as the men loaded it into the back of a hurse. I watched my Mom as the car pulled away and to this day she has never been the same.
It was raining when I woke up two days later and was again told to dress in my Sunday clothes. My Mom wore black…a color that I had never seen her wear before and even though she kept trying to put a smile on her face I could tell she was upset. She was quiet when she combed my hair neatly and straightened the small tie I wore with my suit. She just kept saying that we would be all right and that I just needed to be brave. I went downstairs after she finished and found my Grandparents also dressed in black, there were no smells coming from the kitchen, the large Grandfathers clock was stopped and the photo of my father that sat on the mantel was covered in a black cloth. I had never heard the house so quiet in my life.
Until that day I had never been to a funeral. I knew that people die. My grandfather's sister had passed away, and I had friends that had lost family. But when I walked into our church that day and saw that casket sitting there I was afraid. I knew that this was what had caused all the grief and pain that had come into my little world. This was what had hurt my Mom. I wanted to turn…to run, but I followed my Mom to the front pew instead and sat quietly while the pastor spoke his words and we prayed. It was when we were allowed to go up to the casket that I dug my feet in. My Mom looked hurt at my refusal, but I wanted nothing to do with whatever was in that wooden box. So I sat with my Grandmother as my Mom went up and looked at whatever was in that box. I could see her talking but I couldn't hear what she said. It was when she leaned down kissed the closed top of the box that I quietly moved from my Grandmother's side and went up to her. She looked down at me and smiled sadly before taking my hand in hers and leading me out into the falling rain.
We followed the same strange looking car that I had seen at the airport to the cemetery. The ground was soaked with the rain and I remember being mad that I had mud on my good shoes. I followed my Mom to sit in a chair under a small tent that protected us from the rain. I froze when I saw the wooden box lifted from the back of the strange car and being carried towards us. My Grandfather whispered something to me and I settled. My eyes wouldn't leave the casket when the men that had carried it sat it down. The flag that had covered it was now wet with the rain that was falling and some how that seemed right. Like we weren't the only ones that were grieving. I listened as the Pastor said a prayer over the box and jumped at the sound of gunfire going off. But it was when that stranger that had come to our house stepped forward and tenderly folded the flag that had covered the box and turning handed it to my Mom that I really understood what had happened.
"On behalf of a grateful country."
That's all the stranger said. But it was something that has stayed with me since. I have said those same words more times than I care to admit. Buried good men that gave their lives defending a country that they loved. A country that doesn't always feel thankful or grateful for those men that lay in Flander's Field. I am still proud to serve my Country and what I believe in, to keep the flag flying high.
The flag that my Mom received that day still sits on the mantel next to the photo of my Father. I can't count the number of times that I had walked past that flag and felt a wave of pride wash over me, even after my Mom remarried and I grew up the feeling never changed. I hated my Father for leaving me. Hated him for not keeping his promise, but I forgave him.
I go back to that grave every year now, come rain, snow, sleet, or hail. I think it's my way of making up for not knowing him. I wonder sometimes though if he would be proud of me and everything I've done, if maybe things would have been different if he had come home. And then I look at my men and I know I wouldn't change a thing.
Yeah it was raining that day, but the flag is still flying.
"You ok?" Scarlett asked softly as she cuddled closer. "You seem lost."
Duke pulled her closer as he watched the rainfall. "No, just thinking."
"What about?"
"The past." He looked down at her. "All the friends we've lost."
She nodded. "But never forgotten."
He raised his wine glass high. "To those who died for there country."
Outside in the rain was a flag flying high and proud blowing in the wind.
Dedicated to those who have fought, served, and died so that that flag can remain flying high and free. God bless you!