Vigilance

He stood within sight of the cenotaph, waiting, watching. Oppressive clouds clotted the sky, drowning the sunlight and the grass in which his black leather shoes were sinking. The rain pattered noisily on his jacket. Despite his hood, it ran down his face and the back of his neck. The man shuddered.

People of every description had gathered around the memorial site. Bleachers and benches had been brought out for the elderly and physically challenged, yet there were more children and young parents lining the seats than there were seniors. The young man, Stephen, scowled under his hood. He had shaved and groomed for the somber day, yet so many people looked to have rolled out of bed and thrown on a jacket.

He shook his head in dismay. Memorial Day was, for him, supposed to be about respect for those who have served their time. The only ones who stood in respectful silence were the veterans; those who had risked their lives for their country.

There were not many elderly veterans in attendance. Younger soldiers stood around the cenotaph. Most of the old men and women who had fought for this country had gone to rest with their compatriots. The young were left behind to remember.

Squealing children made known their disdain for the rain, the cold, the hard benches, and life in general.

Stephen rolled his eyes, feeling that none of them knew suffering like him. His grandfather had been a prisoner of war for months; tortured and beaten regularly. He had been saved just in time to die of internal bleeding. Stephen's brother hadn't been so fortunate. He had had no chance of being rescued; no one could have saved him from the car bomb that took his life.

Yet the children wailed about a chill in the air. Stephen's father would have struck him upside the head if he had been so obnoxious. He had, in fact. But that was before his heart had given out on him. Now Stephen's child, if he ever married and had kids, would never meet his grandfather, just like him.

The speakers crackled with static, causing him to wince and the children to moan all the louder. The usual service took place, but he could hardly hear the words. Not that he needed to hear them. He knew all the songs and poems by heart.

He said the words and sung the songs, but with little heart. His hair was soaked, and he couldn't help but shiver. But he felt he had no right to complain. His grandfather had slept in ditches in this kind of weather, never knowing if he would wake the next morning. His brother had likely prayed for rain while he served.

The whole procession was rushed this year, which was fine for Stephen. No one else seemed to want to be there.

Then came his least favorite part--the calling of the names. Those who had died in service to their country since last Memorial Day. Blessedly, it was not a long list. Shorter than the year his brother had died.

As the speaker read off the last name, someone nearby blew their nose. Stephen whipped his head about to glare at the perpetrator. He saw her, but the anger that had been building in his chest died in an instant.

A little boy stood with his mother, holding her hand. Even through the rain, Stephen could tell she was crying. Her shoulders quivered, and she held the offending tissue to her lips.

Stephen didn't need to hear it, he could see it in her eyes, in the gaping hole where the boy's father should have been standing.

At least Stephen had gotten a chance to know his father.

The little boy rubbed his nose and looked up to his mother. Stephen doubted if the boy knew what was happening. What had happened to his father.

Even as a grown man, Stephen didn't understand war.



671 words