Memorial Day

I'm pushing my grandfather's wheelchair down Main Street, looking for a good spot from which to view the Memorial Day parade, when Mrs. Miller suddenly appears in our path. Thrusting a stick with a small flag fastened to it into Pop's face, she says, "There's my favorite veteran." She salutes, then laughs at herself. "Thank you for your service."

"Dan?" Pop looks to me as he reluctantly accepts the flag, wanting to be certain his hearing loss hasn’t obscured her meaning. I open my mouth to translate, but Mrs. Miller doesn’t stop for so much as a breath.

Smiling broadly, she reaches out to touch the red, white, and blue ribbons on Pop's chair. "You’re even more festive than some of our floats!” She reaches out to squeeze my arm. “Your grandpa’s such a cutie. Enjoy the parade, you two! Summer is here!”

I force a smile, which lasts only until she can no longer see my face.

Pop falls silent for a bit, but once we’ve chosen a spot on the curb and settled ourselves in, he speaks again. “They weren’t much older than you, you know,” he says, touching a couple of the ribbons reverently. “Some of these guys.” He looks up at me, and I nod.

“I know, Pop,” I say softly.

Last night I’d watched the old man’s shaky hand gripping the Sharpie as, painstakingly, he copied name after name onto his ribbons. His friends, his neighbors, his classmates - all lost in combat, all given a place on his chair to represent their places in his memory. Toward the end of the evening, when his hand struggled to form anymore letters, I suggested that maybe he’d done enough, but Pop persisted.

“I can’t skip anybody,” he said solemnly.

Now the line of march comes into view, and the first float bears a banner. At first it’s hard to make out the words, but as it comes closer, I see that it reads HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY.

It’s not that hard for me to understand Pop’s reasoning: “I might be the only one who still remembers them.”

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