Past, Present, Future

Summary: For Memorial Day. Captain Steve Rogers visits a modern memorial and finds peace amidst the sorrow.

Rated: K+, for themes regarding national tragedy.

It was amazingly liberating, riding his motorcycle wherever and whenever he chose, with nothing more than his duffel tied onto the back and cash in his wallet.

Liberating, but lonely. Steve Rogers had quickly discovered that he was not quite as different as everyone else now, for in a world teeming with people, loneliness seemed to permeate everyone.

Steve stopped near 12th Avenue and parked in a parking garage, due to the shortage of parking spaces on the street. So much had changed in his city in 70 years, so much and yet so little. Some historic buildings were familiar, even if their new uses were not, with an old bookstore being replaced with a pawn shop or a flea market. New buildings looms overhead, all chrome and glass, blinding in the sunlight. It was an odd place for him to go, even now.

But here, here was where a piece of history had happened that he had missed.

He walked to get there, an unassuming young man dressed in khaki slacks, blue plaid shirt, and old-fashioned brown bomber jacket. The rows of neatly tended trees waived above the cobblestone path, a green oasis in the midst of a metal desert. He reached the wide, engraved railing and peered down at the water. It shimmered in the light, flowing down into a still pool, then down further into the ground. It muted all sounds nearby, the whispered word, the shed tear, the solemn footstep of the passerby.

It was both beautiful and haunting. Steve looked up at the clear blue sky that loomed overhead in the space a building once occupied. He had heard of what happened, seen the footage, understood the loss, yet being here in person was so overwhelming. It was like the modern person's Pearl Harbor, the unexpected loss and tragedy pounded into the very earth, crying out to be heard and understood.

He turned to go and paused at the sight of a young man further down the rail. He was reading the names with silent words, his lips moving earnestly, an American flag and bouquet of white roses gripped tightly in his left hand. A tear was on his cheek, he didn't even bother to wipe it away.

Steve could sense it here, clinging to the people, the trees, and the memorial. It was hope and death and anger, despair and renewal. He left, walking back through the trees, his hands firmly in his pockets, his head down, considering what had been won and lost. Behind him, laid below the rail was a single, pure red poppy flower. It was for all those who had come before, those he had known and loved, and for those who had loved and been lost before he had been found. Treading the very ground where the brave had stood, he knew in his heart that every day was a Memorial Day, to be lived with the shadows of the past and the hopes of the future.

Authors Note: The memorial Steve is visiting is the 9/11 memorial in NYC. It doesn't matter what era you come from, loss is loss, and the pain that comes with is sometimes unbearable, though strength grows from it. Please take time this Memorial Day to thank our veterans who have served so bravely and remember those who served and never came back. Thank you.