Backing out of
the garage, she then pointed her car toward the highway infused with holiday
traffic. Just about everyone she knew was headed to the lake, the mountains,
the cousin’s house, to all those places where folks go to participate in the
frivolity of the Memorial Day weekend.
Hunger arousing aroma of steaks, simmering on a grill and delivered to her on
the wind blowing across the neighborhood, reminded her of other days, those
days when she too associated the day with cookouts, skiing on the lake, camping
in the mountains, or attending a Braves game in Atlanta. Memories of such times
were suppressed as she took a right onto the highway. Traditional Memorial Day
activities now dimmed under the cloak of her present activity, an activity that
rested somewhere among ritual, ceremony, need, and obsession. With
uncompromising regularity she made this pilgrimage, undeterred any form of
inclement weather. It was what she did.
His emails to her
were jovial, never conveying any worry or hint of danger. Yet, she knew. She
knew the general area in which she served. She could read newspapers and watch
the TV news. She could put the pieces together. So she worried.
She drove with
precision in an almost mechanical way as thousands of memories lasting only a
moment played upon the screen of her mind in time with the advancing odometer.
The car she
stopped in the same place she always stopped. Staring for a moment she breathed
deeply in preparation for her rite. Exiting the car she placed her feet upon
the newly trimmed grass and headed up the slight slope toward her destination.
Rank upon rank of the white crosses, standing in perfect formation, stretched
before her and behind her and to each side with a uniformity that defied
individuality. Yet, she progressed without confusion among the silent
sentential to that one particular cross.
She placed the
single rose on the ground above his place of repose. He’d received full
military honors when they placed him here. She’d jumped in shock at the sound
of the rifles and fallen into herself with the notes of Taps. The soldier with the gold band across his cap gave her the
flag they’d taken from his casket and folded with such tight precision. For
long moments she remembered that day and how they had rendered the honors. And
yet, the rose, now lying in quiet testimony above his remains was the honor
that would continue until her deat.
A wind was
blowing when she rose to leave. A wind was blowing from the East. She stood
quietly again. “I love you, son,” she said with a mother’s comforting voice.
She turned toward home where life laboriously moved on.
Dear Parson,
"lest we forget" and let us pray, work and strive to make "Never again" a reality. Peace, Curtis
Posted by: CurtisGrissett | June 01, 2010 at 04:17 PM