Wreaths of Remembrance

An old woman stands alone before a grave marker a row ahead of us and just to the left. I shouldn’t be watching, but I do as she sinks slowly to her knees, her head bowed. It’s just that she’s old and alone.

Gretchen lays her head on my shoulder. I turn my attention back to the proceedings, the “why” of how we came to be at our local veterans' cemetery. In this case, local for us is Arlington, probably the most famous of all veterans’ cemeteries in the United States.

I put my arm around her, half of me paying attention to the service we’re part of, paying honor to G-Pa on National Wreaths Across America Day. It’s not something we do every year but since it’s the first year my folks have come out to DC to visit us for Christmas, we thought it was a good idea to have a short service in honor of my Dad’s dad, who passed away a couple of years ago at the advanced age of a hundred and two. Our sons are lucky; they got to know G-Pa (our youngest, Kyle, is the one who gave him that appellation). I’m lucky too, to have had him around my whole life, and into the early teenage years of both David and Kyle’s lives. G-Pa’s been a fixture, so to speak. A fixture that Gretchen, with tears in her eyes, whispers to me that she misses very much.

What a testament to a life. To be missed by three generations.

The retired Army minister we hired to do the service continues on. My eyes are drawn once more to the woman who continues to kneel before the headstone. There’s a wreath on it as there are on all of them. There’s something majestic and peaceful about seeing all those wreaths. Driving into Arlington on any given day is a powerful and moving event. Seeing wreaths adorning the headstones of the many who gave their lives for our country nearly takes my breath away. No headstone is unadorned. No life is left without honor.

The boys, sitting in the chairs in front of us, are restless. Gretchen taps Kyle then David on the shoulder to get them to settle down. David and Kyle were born just a year apart and are fourteen and thirteen, respectively, with the collective attention span of a gnat. We made them leave their phones in the car. Probably that was a mistake.

I’m restless too, to be honest. While I’m happy to spend time reminiscing about my father’s father, I don’t want to be doing it out here in the cold. You’d think the minister was being paid by the word, with the way he’s going on and on.

Gretchen stirs again, this time in distress. I look to where she points. In a flash, I am out of my chair, with Kyle and David close behind. We race to where the woman I noticed earlier is struggling to get to her feet.

“Ma’am. Ma’am?” I’m at her side, taking an elbow. David stands on her other side, Kyle in front.

“I can’t seem to get up,” she says in a shaky voice. “It was foolish of me to come out here, but I had to.”

“It’s no bother, ma’am. My sons and I will help you.” I nod to David. We lift her easily to standing but it’s clear she’s in no condition to be on her own.

“Come with us. You can sit in my chair,” Kyle offers. I can tell she doesn’t want to intrude on our small gathering, but she doesn’t put up a fuss.

The boys help her to a chair, and I return to my seat next to Gretchen. “Is she alright? Do you know her?” she whispers. I shake my head to both questions.

It’s only a few minutes before the minister winds down. I feel sort of bad that I didn’t pay more attention because both Mom and Dad are wiping their eyes as they shake his hand.

We all stand, even our most recent guest. She seems ready to leave until my father turns around.

“George? George, is that you?” George was my grandfather. My dad does look like him, I’ll admit.

Dad comes over. Mom follows. “Ma’am? I’m Brent. George was my father.”

She laughs nervously. “Good gracious. I must be losing my marbles. Of course you’re not George. You’re much too young.”

He looks at her more closely. “Did you know him? My Dad? George?” Mom holds his arm. They are both still clearly feeling the impact of the ceremony we just participated in.

“George Albright. If that’s your father, then yes.” She looks ahead to the next row, to where she was standing. “My Alan and your father were together in Normandy. They stayed in touch too.” She reaches out to pat my father’s arm. “Your mother and father were dear friends of ours for years, until we moved to Iowa. Then George and Alan kept up on their letter writing. I have a box of letters that your dad wrote to my husband. He treasured them.”

Mom wipes her eyes again. So does Gretchen.

The woman opens her purse, handing a card to my father. “You’ll forgive an old woman for wanting to stay in touch, but connections are important.” He takes it from her and hands it to my mom.

A man in a chauffeur’s uniform walks toward us. “Mrs Ryan? Are you ready to go?”

She smiles at him. “I believe I am.” She turns one last time to take us all in. “This is my last trip out here. Thank you for making it so memorable.”

Before we can say anything else, she takes the man’s arm. They walk away together slowly, to the car that awaits on the drive.

“No life ever goes unnoticed,” my father says. He’s right.

***
987 words

Prompt: The third Sunday of December is National Wreaths Across America Day. It is a day when wreaths are laid at veterans’ cemeteries across the country, including Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia.
Please write a story or poem that has the title “Wreaths of Remembrance” and select “Military” as one of your genres.