Remembrance

Dolores Hans
MSMU class of 2025

(5/2024) In the stillness of the morning, the droplets coating the blades of grass cling to the hair on my ankles and create the dampness I hate to feel and the squeak of my sneakers I hate to hear. I wonder if a time will come when I can choose to go places, rather than be "voluntold" by my mother. If I was older, I wouldn’t have to accompany my grandma to a place that has very little meaning to me and feel guilty for not caring more than I do. I wish I did know, or feel, or whatever it is that causes someone to want to go visit a stranger’s grave. But the squeak of my sneakers, the carsick feeling I get after sitting in the backseat, the dampness of my socks, and my tired eyes prohibit me from surpassing the bare minimum of care. I’m here, I’m here for Grandma, and this means a lot to her. I keep repeating this to myself to get me through it. As I stroll past the curb and through the grass I pass stone after stone, engraved and decorated with flowers, some few, some bunches, some wilted and some stiff with purpose. I walk through the maze of stones, clutching my grandma's hand as she clutches the handkerchief she’s been using to dry the few tears that have dared glide somberly over her cheeks.

We stop at the grave of a stranger. Well, stranger to me. To my grandmother, was a beloved friend. I had heard a story or two before but I had no personal connection to the man. I close my eyes and try to picture him and my grandma and how she must be devastated without him, and how hard it must’ve been for him to fight for our country. Empathy and empathy alone makes a tear stream down my face. Am I doing it right? Is this remembrance? Is this how we honor them? I hope I’m doing enough.

When I first heard of "Decoration Day", I didn’t know what it was. When I discovered its meaning, all I could think of was how it felt to stroll past the graves of strangers, decorated with flowers, knickknacks, and photos.

My family is very patriotic. We have many family members who have served in the marines, national guard, and army. My Great Pop Pop was in the army. He never spoke about it to me before he died, probably because I was so young, but sometimes I think about if he watched the sunset when he was overseas, just as he always sat on the back porch and taught me how to love watching a sunset. He always told such elaborate stories about his life to me when I was a child, and to this day I don’t know what is true. I like to imagine him entertaining his squad with elaborate stories that are crazy, but just crazy enough to be true, or pretending to eat bee stingers, or finding a flower somewhere and telling them how he breaks the arms of people who touch his flowers. I remember when my Great Pop Pop died. At his funeral they draped a perfectly folded American Flag over his casket, and that flag was later folded into a perfect triangle and handed to one of my other family members. I wonder how many other thousands of funerals this was a part of, and how many other thousands of children witnessed their loved one’s casket draped with our flag.

My Uncle John is still alive, but I don’t see him anymore. He was in the marines. He also never told me stories, but I remember him coming to my house in full uniform a couple times. I remember how strong and manly he looked. I would trust him to defend a whole world, but defending a country seems fitting too. He had the best laugh, just like my dad. I like to think that he provided some laughter for others while on duty and inspired them with his strength the way he inspired me.

My brother joined the National Guard when I was in high school, and I still keep with me the letter he sent me from boot camp. Just as my Great Pop Pop and Uncle John were probably cracking jokes, here was my brother telling me to save him a slice of pizza for when he gets back.

Though I don’t know anyone personally who died in service, I know it is important to keep them in my heart and in my prayers. Though they are strangers to me; I am also a stranger to them, and that did not hinder their decision to sacrifice their life for me, so the least I can do is take a day to extend a prayer of thanksgiving for what they’ve done for my life.

When my life is filled with joyful moments like those I experience on Memorial Day, with family gathered around and the grill turned on, I will remember those who died in military service. When the sun passes through the trees and warms the grass, I walk through on my way to greet a family member I haven’t seen in 6 months, I will remember those who gave their life for my sake. When the classic rock music starts to play and my dad and uncles, with their identical beards and identical laughter, all begin to discuss whatever hilarious thing has happened to them recently, I will remember the veterans. When I mix chalk in water and paint the American flag on my little brother's backs, and they start to chant "U.S.A" as they run through the yard, I will think how proud I am to be American. When the guests have all left and it is just me and my family at the end of the day, and we search "patriotic movies" on Amazon Prime, and inevitably land on something starring Mel Gibson, I will appreciate the opportunity I have to do so because of the sacrifice of a stranger.