Never Forget

(Authors note: I make a slight note to this story on this day of remembrance, 9/11/2006-May 9/11 remind us of the previous wars that have been fought and help us to remember those with courage and bravery even more. I fly the flag with pride and honor all those who fight under it's colors for the benefit of all men, and the freedoms of our country.)

The sight of all the people should have been a warning, but I was too depressed to think about what I was seeing. I was too tired from the long drive. I wanted to go back home.

Mom and dad could rant on about how grandpa was this and grandpa was that, but I didn't have to hear it all the time, did I? Jason, my little brother was a bundle of energy. He was almost literally bouncing off the walls in the small rental car we had gotten to get to the park.

I still didn't see why we needed to come here. Grandpa had died four years ago, and I still remembered his funeral. It had been one of the hardest days of my life. Grandma had seemed to hollow out and become a frail old woman in the blink of an eye. They had even had to put her in a rest home just last year, and now she was sleeping all the time.

But now, here it was Memorial day weekend--what was supposed to have been my first weekend of summer, and we were spending it here at this stupid park. We were supposedly honoring grandpa and some of his old friends. Great. Go to it. Just why did you have to bring me?

"Lora," my mom's voice penetrated my depressed silence and made me look forward. "Do you see it?"

"See what?" I asked surly.

"Lora." My father's tone reminded me that I was stepping on the proverbial 'line' between respect and punishment, and I sighed.

"Do you see the flag?"

I groaned inwardly, wondering why she wanted me to see the flag. It would be the same flag flown everywhere in the big-ol-United States, wouldn't it? I glanced out the window to see if I could humor her and spotted it.

The largest flag I think I've ever seen, and I've seen some. The mall back home has this huge flag that you can see from the freeway and it seems large enough to cover a house. This one beat that by tons, and I stared at it in amazement.

"Wow!" Jason's voice was full of awe and I nodded slowly in agreement. "Why do they have such a big flag, mom?"

"It's a memorial flag," dad said, his voice full and deep - saying without words the respect and reverence he felt for this place. It made me hesitate to reply too quickly.

"Memorial to what?" I finally managed to ask, my eyes never leaving the amazing square of cloth that had to have been over 100 feet long.

"To the men that died serving our country."

I sighed, resting my chin on the edge of the car frame. "Grandpa didn't die in the war."

"No," my mom agreed, "but he served, and many of his friends died there."

"Yep," dad said, forcing a lightness into his tone that told me he was feeling emotional. He always tried to hide tears from us, as if that made him less of a dad or something. "He had lots of friends buried here. Today he joins them."

I tore my gaze away from the flag and stared at my dad. "What?"

"Cool!" Jason thought everything was cool. "They're taking him out of the coffin and stuff?"

"Jason!" my mother sounded tired, but still a little shocked. "Of course not! They are just moving the coffin here with the rest of grandpa's unit. It was decided last December, by all the widows. The men served together and wanted to remain together."

"But what about when Grandma dies?" I asked, a little confused and dismayed by the idea. "Where will she go?"

Dad chuckled, as if it wasn't that hard of an answer. "She'll go where grandpa was buried. She can't be buried with him here. She knows that."

"I don't think that's right," I muttered, folding my arms and looking back out the window at the flag.

We came to a stop and dad got out of the car, standing for a moment as if he wasn't sure what to do. Finally he went around and opened moms door, which was the signal that Jason was looking for. He was out of the car like a shot, careening through the crowd like a dog looking for a special treat.

"Jason!" Mom called after him, but it was too late, he was gone. "Oh dear..."

Dad shrugged, his face showing resignation and a little humor. "We should have known. We know where he'll be."

"Yes, that's true."

"What? You think he's going to the flag?" I asked, disgusted with my little brother for once again not thinking about what he was doing. He was always getting into trouble. More than once my parents have had to go find him in some store or something-

"He needs it." My mom's voice held understanding and acceptance, and I made a face.

Sure he did. He and grandpa were sooo close. He was grandpa's favorite. I was careful never to express those thoughts out loud.

I followed my parents as they walked through the cut grass, still damp from the morning dew. Now I realized there were tons of people here. People wandering all through the graveyard which was next to the memorial park. People old and young. There were lots of little kids running around and looking at the names. I quickly felt above all of that and walked behind my parents with a superior look. After all, 14 is much too grown up to do that.

"There it is, Lora."

I looked up at my mom, who was pointing to a gravestone sitting next to freshly turned dirt. Oh man! I thought in a sudden panic. They had just buried him? Wasn't there some kind of ceremony or something-

My gaze finally landed on the name and words on the large rectangular white stone. Stamped deeply with gold inlay, the words seemed to leap out and imprint themselves on my heart.

"Charles S. Parks - Sergeant in the US Army. 2nd Btln Ranger, WWII. Never Forget"

That was what Grandpa had always said to me. His deep blue eyes, a little watery at the edges would bore into mine and he would grip my arms like vises. "Never forget, my girl. Those men fought so you wouldn't have to. They hoped it would be the war to end all wars...that peace would be final." His gaze would then leave mine, and his hands would slowly slide down and leave me. He had never been the same after 9/11. It had seemed to take some heart out of him, I don't know. Perhaps it was because he felt the people had let everyone down.

"They should have made them pay," he often muttered. "For the travesty they caused. I would have made them pay..."

Now I stared down at the words, my heart constricting with pain. I missed him so much. Grandpa had been the best. He was always telling us stories and coming to our school stuff and always came to our house for Christmas. He and grandma would hold us close and tell us how wonderful we were...

I felt an arm around my shoulders and looked up, blinking away the tears to see my mother smiling a watery smile at me.

"Makes me miss him all over again," she whispered. This had been her father--the one buried here. Apparently it had taken dad a long time to win him over, but they were best buds when grandpa had died. Dad had been depressed for a good month.

Suddenly I slipped my arms around mom's waist and buried my head in her shoulder, sobs wracking my body. It was so hard without him. Weren't we supposed to be feeling less heartache by now?

I felt another arm encircle us, and knew my father had joined us in a hug. We were one for a moment in our grief.

This was the reason I hadn't wanted to come. I was tired of grieving. Tired of missing grandpa with an ache that never fully went away. Tired of seeing grandma with a faded life in her eyes that wanted to just end. Tired of missing the best friend I'd ever had.

"Why did he have to go?" I heard myself whispering, knowing the answer, but still having it come out.

"I know," mom whispered brokenly. "I know. I think it too. But, you know he would hate this."

I nodded, closing my gritty eyes. Grandpa hated crying. He felt like girls were a bunch of ninnies. But in reality, it was mainly that he didn't want us to cry for him. He told me that once a long time ago - "When I die, Loli," he said, (Loli was his nickname for me) "I don't want to be up in heaven with all my best buds looking down at you crying. What are they going to think? That you didn't think I'd made it to heaven? That I wasn't a good man? You stand tall and proud and know that your grandpa went to the Lord. That I joined all my proud friends who served long and served well. You know that, sweetie, cause I couldn't stand it if I looked down on you and you were crying."

I had promised him at the time, but now I realized I'd broken my word. Here I was, bawling like a little kid, acting like he wasn't where he wanted to be. But I missed him so!

Suddenly there was someone standing by us, and I pulled away to see a very old man, thin and wiry, standing a little bent over, but still as straight as he could - his uniform starched and pressed within an inch of it's life. His hat still sat jauntily over one eye, and the life in those dark eyes had them shining brightly.

"Ma'am? Am I looking at Sergeant Park's daughter?" his voice was gravely, but strong, and my mom stared at him for a moment before pulling herself together.

"Yes, Yes I am."

"Well, I'm right pleased to meet you. I served with your father. My name is Jason Barton, and I feel it's an honor to be here today." He snapped a smart salute--my grandpa had shown me how they were supposed to look, and then reached out to shake our hands.

"Thank you for being here," Mom managed to murmur as she shook his hand. "I didn't think there were any of his squad left."

Mr. Barton smiled and gave a slight shrug. "Not many of us, that's for sure. We have a couple of chairs set up over here, if you'd like to sit down."

We followed him over to a small gathering area, where they had a circle of chairs set out and a small table with a microphone. What in the world?

Mom and dad sat down, pulling me close to them. Suddenly Jason appeared, looking rather subdued, and sat on the other side of dad.

"There you are," mom said with a relieved sigh. "Where did you take off to?"

"Oh, that one and I had a little chat," Mr. Barton said with a proud grin. "I discovered he was my name sake - boy howdy was that a surprise. Made my whole day, I can tell you."

Mom looked at dad who offered a weak grin. "I guess we never did fully discuss that, did we?" he licked his lips and grinned up at Mr. Barton. "Why don't you tell her the story, since her father never did."

Mr. Barton looked a trifle surprised, and then pulled a chair over to face us. "Well, now, I guess I can do that." He looked at me and winked. "Well then. Back in WWII, your granddad and I were on Omaha Beach together. Your granddad was the radio man, and I was supposed to help keep him covered so he could work the radio. The first night we was there, it was crazy. The Germans were shooting everything they could at us, not giving us time to rest or recoup. We hung on and kept firing back until dawn and the next boats arrived. Your granddad was the strongest man I ever saw - he never let me sleep, never let up talking about what we needed to do."

He paused for a moment and looked out over the gravestones, as if seeing the faces that went with the names. "When light started coming and the new boats started in, the fire got even heavier. Your granddad decided we needed to give those men extra cover from closer to the shore. We ran down with our guns, but got cut off half way by enemy fire. I got hit in the leg." He indicated his left leg, and I glanced at it in fascination. "He drug me to the hole we'd dug the day before, and kept cover over me. Then, when some men finally reached us, he helped carry me farther back to the cover of the cliffs. He made sure I made it to a medic as soon as we were set up, and I was lucky that it didn't fester or I'd have lost it." He sighed and looked down at his hands. "Lot's of guys lost their legs when they got shot."

He looked up at us, and licked his dry lips before continuing. "I could have lost my life that day - there on the beach. I owe everything to your granddad. He was the best friend I ever had."

I stared at him, feeling my heart contract with pain. "He was yours too?"

He nodded and my eyes filled with tears again, but I found myself jumping up and throwing my arms around his thin shoulder. "Thank you!" I whispered, my throat tight with tears. "Thank you for being here."

My mom pulled me away, to give him a hug of her own, and we all smiled at each other, suddenly feeling as if the day were brighter.

Mr. Barton, or Uncle Jason as he told me to call him, spent the rest of the day with us. He became the friend I'd lost when my grandpa had died.

When I look back on that day now, I know that I was very lucky. My grandfather had a great friend that came to me when I needed him. As a result, I never did forget. I never will. And I'll make sure my children never do either.

Never forget.