It wasn't often that America managed to get himself lost on his own lands, but when he did manage it…well, he was hopelessly lost. Luckily for him, he had lived long enough to know that in some situations, it really did help to ask for directions. That was how he found himself on the front porch of an old ranch house in middle-of-nowhere Kansas, knocking on the front door. There was a commotion from indoors, with dogs barking and a quiet yell and something scraping across hardwood floors before the door was swung open by an old man. He was tall and wide, with a head of neatly kept white hair. America blinked. He recognized the man; he had served in Vietnam and World War II. Different battalion, rank, and job, but America knew him all the same. There was a beat of silence before the man gave him a warm smile.
"Can I help you, young man?"
"Oh, yeah! Um, I'm lost. Can you direct me to, uh..where was it…?"America scratched his head, trying to remember the name of the old place. "Oh! To highway 54 and then to Hays. I kinda got turned around somewhere near Wichita…."
The old man looked surprised. "You're a fair distance from both of those! Here, come inside. I think I've got a map somewhere…." He held the door open and America thanked him. "You'll have to excuse the mess." the man apologized as he led America through the house. "We're trying to redo the family room."
America nodded and followed silently to the kitchen. In the room over, he glimpsed an older woman and a teenager making an attempt to move a sofa. "Uh…would you all like help?" America offered, smiling widely. "I've got some time!"
After a bit of polite protest and bright smiles and friendly conversations, America had managed to move the furniture out, bring ladders in, and had begun to paint the walls a nice shade of blue. He had learned that the man was named Bill and his wife Annie, and their 14-year old granddaughter was named Sarah (Of course, he had already known that) and that they were preparing to move out to Virginia to be with family, which was why they were trying to redo some of the rooms in the house.
After an hour of honest labor, everyone left for the kitchen to get some lemonade and have a moment of rest. The family thanked him profusely, and of course it was no problem at all he laughed. Then the old man remembered he had to grab a heavy toolbox from the basement, but America offered to go instead because, really, what were heroes for? He found himself descending a red-carpeted staircase into a nice, brightly lit basement and he found himself in some back room, searching through cabinets for a box of tools. That was when he stumbled upon it.
The paper was yellowed with age, and the writing had long since begun to wear down to faded grey ink. But still…the headline was bold and blaring at the top.
President Kennedy Shot- Nation Mourns
And beneath was a picture of the man, smiling and waving and very much alive despite what the headlines read. The writing detailed the man's life and death, told how the country and many other nations would observe a moment of silence to mourn the loss of this great man's life. So Alfred went through the article, and he was overcome with memories. He didn't know how long he stayed, sitting cross-legged on the floor, chest aching and vision swimming, before he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.
The nation flinched and glanced behind him to see a pair of warm brown eyes. It was Sarah. Her eyes drifted from his and towards the paper spread carefully across the hard floor. "It's sad, isn't it?"she murmured, and sat down beside him. Her fingers traced the edges of the fragile paper and she said "It's okay to cry, Alfred. I know I did the first time I read this article. It's only human, after all, to be sad when someone disappears like that."
For a moment, all was quiet. Then, the first quiet sniffle was heard, followed soon after by another, before a steady sobbing took its place.
Alfred cried. For everyone he had lost, everything that had been taken, the people he had watched mourn, the emotions he could never display to the others because he was supposed to be the strong, unbreakable force. He was the hero. The greatest nation on earth, America.
But he was also the child, Alfred.
So in the quiet basement, with a little mortal girl who would never really understand, he let himself lament.