Dedicated to everyone who has fallen victim to the wars, whether you fought or not.

Soldiers aren't the only ones with battles.

Memorial Day has always scared me a bit. I don't think the fear is irrational; I don't even know if it should be even classified as a fear. I guess it's more of a... worry.

My dad is fighting in what could be the most hardcore wars in history: the Darehmanian War. He's been out there for six years, meaning he left when I was eleven. I used to get some letters from him during the first few months, but they rapidly faded to a halt as the war went into full swing. I never heard from him since.

Maybe I'm scared of Memorial Day because I may have to remember one day. If Dad dies out there, Memorial Day will no longer be a day where I'm excused from school and I get to hang with my friends. Everyone goes out to the movies or they go out to get some ice cream, but I just sit in my room and I think. I don't have any siblings. Without Dad, it's just Mom and I.

Oh Mom. Ever since ties with Dad were cut, she changed. She used to be so lively, humorous, involved.

Happy.

Now she stresses herself out over even the simplest things. She pushes- almost forces- me to do all the activities and advanced classes possible so I can graduate with a scholarship, opening up a successful future. She has developed an unhealthy relationship with the news channels, just waiting for even a single word on the war. She continuously checks the mailbox for letters, even at ridiculous hours. And, though she's not aware I know, she's getting threatened with a demotion at work for being too distracted. Her income is just enough to hold us over; we literally cannot afford to lose any money. That's why I got a job, and that's where all those sudden funds are coming from.

Point is that Mom would lose it if Dad were to pass away. I genuinely believed that her name was Beautiful when I was little because that was all Dad would call her. He's her rock, her life preserver. Mom spends almost every night sharing my bed with me all because she doesn't want to sleep alone, fully aware that that could be permanent.

I've seen families weep in graveyards on Memorial Day, and I'm not all too willing to join. I don't want Dad to turn into some hopeless cause in a soldier charity. Way too many military members come home deformed, disabled. Will Dad be like that too? Will he come home with eternal confinement to a wheelchair? Will he come home, unable to hear Mom and I's voices? Will he come home, and Mom and I are the ones who will never hear his voice?

Will he come home?

All the universe sees are the war veterans with flags pinned to their chests and determined faces, ready to take on the world. Those last words from those last long, agonizing six years may be the last. If Dad returns without the capability to speak, I'll never hear I love you again. Mom will never be called Beautiful again. Heck, Dad might show up without a single memory of me.

I remember how hard it was when Dad left, having to explain why I couldn't make a Father's Day card in class. That first Father's Day, I made one anyway. Being the oblivious and naive child I was, I sent it. At the very bottom, I wrote When will you be coming back?

I never got an answer.

I stand from my bed, and my spine crackles as I do so. Padding across the white carpet, I begin to swing the ajar door open to leave, but I freeze. Out in the hall is Mom with her back to me. Over her shoulder I can see she's looking at her and Dad's wedding photo, framed and mounted on the wall.

"Patton Drilovsky," Mom's sob-permeated voice says, "where are you?"