Memorial

Summer wouldn't begin, officially, for another three weeks. The sun didn't care; it shone brightly and scorched down upon every bit of exposed flesh on his body. Perhaps he didn't notice, or he simply didn't care. He just stood there and stared at the cold, stone marker in front of which he'd placed a small, star-spangled banner on a stick.

 

An older woman nearby noticed him standing there, and couldn't help but to approach him before she left the cemetery. She walked with a cane to counter her noticeable limp, a product of old age more than injury. She was a kind soul, and placed an arthritic hand on his shoulder.  

 

"I'm sorry for your loss, young man," she said to him softly, motherly. Her words stirred him from his trance. Her eyes were every bit as soulful as the dulcet and comforting tone of her voice.

 

"Thank you, but I didn't lose anyone."

 

Surprised, she replied "oh, I see. Then you must be one of those volunteers that places the flags on soldier's graves. That's very commendable of you."

 

He smiled. "No, I'm not one of those either."

 

Confusion overtook the woman. Why else who the young man be there? A lifetime ago, she would have smiled, nodded, and been on her way. At her age, however, her subtlety had abandoned her.

 

"Well, then what brings you here? It's a little odd for someone with no connection to these lost souls to loiter about in cemeteries!"

 

He chuckled. "Oh, I do have a connection, ma'am," her replied respectfully. "Here." The young man pulled out his wallet and revealed to her a faded picture of him, together with a number of other soldiers in the desert.

 

"We're all brothers, ma'am." He returned the picture to his wallet, and she saw by his license when he did so that his name was John Foster.   

 

"Well, Mr. Foster, It's honorable for you to come and remember the fallen."

 

"It's hard for me not to, ma'am." John Foster smiled. "It's been a pleasure speaking with you. You enjoy the rest of your day."

 

The polite young man wandered away, leaving the woman to lament the fact that so many like him had lost their lives in service. She could only imagine how Mr. Foster must have felt, assured that he'd lost more than he admitted to her. She couldn't have been more right; she dropped her cane and gasped as she turned to view the headstone before which he'd been standing. It read:

 

JOHN FOSTER

CPL

US ARMY

MAY 21, 1980

SEP 11, 2004

PURPLE HEART

OPERATION

IRAQI FREEDOM

 

Quickly she scanned the area around her in search of the young Mr. Foster only to find no trace of him. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned back to the headstone.

 

"God bless you, Mr. Foster."

 

She linger for a few moments more, patted her hand atop John Foster's gravestone, and hobbled back towards the car where her day nurse waited to drive her back to the nursing home. The old woman was visibly shaken when she arrived.

 

"Ellie, are you okay?" the nurse asked with concern.

 

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she replied. "Because of young men like that." Ellie pointed back towards Foster's grave.

 

"Like who, Ellie?"

 

Ellie grinned as wide as her dentures would allow. "Never mind, dear. Let's go home." The nurse helped Ellie into the car and Ellie stared back up the hill towards the place where she'd meet Corporal John Foster. She wished she could have thanked him, shown her gratitude, and told her how proud she was of him. Somehow, she suspected he already knew.

 

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This post is dedicated in memorial to all those who've sacrificed for our flag.

 

 

© 2016 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.