Memorial Day
Last night, we sat on the bumper of my car and watched the stars, the planets, and the frequent jets passing far above us in the night. Sarah put her arm around me and pointed to a shooting star, enormous and green as it shot across the northern sky.
"Make a wish," she said.
"I have nothing left to wish for," I told her. "I've got everything I need."
"Then wish we get to keep it," she whispered, softly. And I did.
Today is Memorial Day, a day when we recall the things we do not care to. I remember as a child memorizing the poem "Flanders Fields" and handing out paper poppies, having no comprehension that the holiday recalled the millions who died on the battlefields of World War I. Today, I recall the images I have seen of those battles, of the senseless deaths. I recall, too, that 52,000 men died at Gettysburg in three days. I recall that over forty million civilians died among our allies, the Soviet Union and China, during World War II. The vastness of the suffering overwhelms me if I let it.
Though I was never in the military, Memorial Day reminds me of a more personal pain, one I would rather forget. I cover it up by working madly in the garden, for here in the Parowan Valley, Memorial Day is the day for planting summer crops. I work the soil in the raised beds, and I plant the tomato and pepper seedlings I started indoors. I plant seeds for cucumbers, squash, parsley and thyme.
Lost in my labors, I can almost forget that things were not always as they are. As I take a break, lean on my spade, and watch Sarah cross the yard toward me with a glass of water, I can imagine us living like this forever. Far in the distant past seem the days when we lived in the city, when neither of us had so much as a cat, when we looked on each other as mere coworkers. So much has changed since then. Our life today is far more joyful than it ever was back then. But the journey from there to here was not without difficulty.
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