Memorial Day - By Mark Andersen

This is a work of fiction, none of the names are true, nor is any of this based on any real event.

Memorial Day - By Mark Andersen

The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over, using a cane and with what combat veterans describe as the thousand yard stare. A gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.

“How Many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was a finite answer, the true answer was too many. He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a flag out of his backpack and placing a flag in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were to young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all to young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.

“What a waste.” He exclaimed while shaking his head.

Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play taps, the mournful sound echoed across the landscape. The forlorn notes brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war. They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.

As he was reflecting on his past life a young man with close cropped hair, a muscular build and the thousand yard stare approached the old man.

“Hello sir, may I help you put those flags out?”

“Well, this is kind of a mission I promised myself I would complete for my fallen brothers. It is something I have done every year since 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete.”

“Sir, I have fallen brethren here as well, it would be an honor to help you.”

“Where and when did you serve son?”

“I was with the Bravo company 1/502nd Infantry Battalion, 101st Airborne Division, I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name son?”

“Troy Miller, sir.”

“Troy, I am Mike Samson, I was with the the 101st during WWII, I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”

“I was Corporal sir.”

“You don’t need to call me sir, I was never anything more than a Private.”

The two of them soldiered on, placing a flag in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.

“What are your thoughts on war.” Asked the old man.

“My thoughts on war?” the young man said

“Yeah, what are your thoughts on war?”

“I feel that as a species we have great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live, like you and me, we don’t come home the same. We are broken, yet, we try to hide it as best we can. All the while the great leaders proclaim the young men are heros. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is groomed to go to war for men with big egos. There has to be a better way.”

“You are right on the money son. My only wish throughout my life is that we would someday stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”

The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.

“I have to get going.” Said the young man.

“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”

“I would love to, but I have to go.”

“All right, It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon, he then looked down at the marble headstone,

Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom

The old men wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “What a waste.”

For my Mom

Not the story I had hoped to post....maybe later.

Mom,
Today is my first Mother’s day without you. I am finding it far harder to get through this day than I thought I would. Today I planted a rosebush for you in your honor in my front flowerbed. Everyone will see it when they come up to my front door. I know you will would have loved it. You always did love roses.

As I think of this day and the forty-two Mother’s days we shared together, I cannot think of a single one that stands out more than another. I can remember Dad taking me to Steven’s House of Gifts to get a Mother’s day gift for you. I think we went there every year together until they closed. Even as a teenager Dad would tell me before we went into the store that I could not touch anything in there. Every year we got you bell for Mother’s day...and every year you would act surprised. Even though you knew exactly what you were getting; Dad and I were creatures of habit and always got you the same thing for Mother’s day.

As I was planting my garden today I thought of you often and how much you loved gardening. How you taught me how to garden. It seemed odd planting it this year without asking you what you thought I should plant. I hope I did OK with it. I still remember you working in your garden at the house on Jacobson. You would have one of the neighbors come over with a rototiller every year. One half would be flowers and the other vegetables. You always planted enough to be able to can your own. Something I hope to do this year. I can see you standing up in the flower bed, wiping your forehead after pulling weeds and little Brad Wallom coming over and counting your toes...he could never quite figure out why you only had eight and he had ten.

I can remember all the times I came home from after being bullied and tortured and you were always there for me...you did not know it at the time but the phrase you used to say to make me feel better actually made the pain worse. “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I may as well go eat worms.” I know you thought you were being funny and you were trying to cheer me up...but Mom, I don’t think you or Dad ever really did understand what I was going through. I forgive you for it...you could not possibly have known the torture and pain I was going through...I don’t think anyone really did.

One of the memories that has stuck with me the most over the years Mom was when you were sick and in the hospital. You got to come home on weekends, oh how I cried when we had to take you back there...it must have torn you apart to leave me sitting in the car crying while Dad took you to the psychiatric ward...I still shocks me to this day that children were not allowed to visit. There was one time in particular that sticks out in my head. Dad and I went to get you to bring you home for the weekend I was maybe all of five. Dad had to leave me in the car to go up and get you. Oh I cried and cried the whole time Dad was gone...and then you came down with a gift for me. A book called “Fraidy Cat” you had just found out that I had learned how to read while you were in the hospital...and you wanted me to read it to you when we got home. I still have that book Mom...and I still treasure it. It was the first book I ever read to you.

As I write this Mom, the tears are streaming down my face and I realize that I did not cry for you when you passed away. I don’t know why...I do not know if it was the shock of your death, the stress of watching you die, knowing that you were finally at peace and no longer in pain...or that I was so concerned that I would break down while reading your eulogy...I do not know. I do know that today has brought back a flood of emotions...and tears. Mom, you are missed. Today just did not seem right without bringing you flowers and a funny card...and having you make a big fuss about them...even though you knew that is what I was going to bring you...being a creature of habit and all.

I love you Mom.
Mark

I will post more soon...

I am getting towards the end of the semester and am writing papers on Political Rhetoric and working on a research project on end-wser documentation...so not a lot of time to write fiction right now...I am planning on writing a story about the death of a parent, something I recently went through.