Memorial Day has just passed, and what was supposed to be a day for remembering, seems like a day I forgot.
I remembered to get home for the holiday, and too hurry with getting ice cubes put in the tea, chips in the bowl and tomatoes and onions sliced to top the burgers we would serve to our family for the gathering. I usually remember to bring my old trumpet home to play Taps at my grandfather’s grave too, but I forgot it. I also meant simply to stop at my grandparents’ grave to pay my respects, but I forgot that too. They rest there in silence and don’t even whisper a request for my attention. I rushed by the cemetery twice that day, so used to the peripheral of that monument on the hill, that I didn’t remember this year to stop.
I remember my grandfather’s laugh and the lines of wrinkles on his face; I remember the day of his death, though, better than I remember the day of his birth. I don’t remember all of the places my grandfather served during World War II, I just remember that he served honorably.
Remembering, I guess, seemed like work, and this was supposed to be a holiday.
Today, getting back to work after a long weekend, traffic horns resound more than usual. Impatience and weariness runs high, and I regret not saying goodbye the last time I saw him alive. There is so much hurry and so many other sounds in the city, I missed taking in the simplicity of their black gravestone, the bright marigolds planted around it and the sound of the wind and the flapping of flags decorating the graves of those who served.
To revere him in a blog post can’t quite measure up to the memories I miss of my grandfather, but here’s to helping those who read this to keep hold of their own.