Memorial Day

Today I noticed that I didn't have that stabbing pain in my chest when I went to visit the cemetery. 

I noticed the blue the sky, the white and puffy the clouds, and the soft, yet scratchy the grass. Any other place it would have been perfect for a picnic. 

I also noticed the people. There are the standers, the kneelers, and the sitters. 

I'm a sitter. 

I noticed two men, like me, who might have been remembering a buddy. And an older man, head bowed, who might have been spending time with a partner that died before he did.  

Sweetie and I watched the PBS Memorial Day special last night. At one point I wondered why we tortured ourselves with the sadness of it all. The pictures, the letters, the music. I told myself I watched out of respect and gratitude. A small sacrifice of time and tears. I noticed, as the camera panned the audience, how old men, who were probably just boys when they learned how to be soldiers, or sailors, or Marines, could still stand at attention, back ramrod straight, shoulders back, head held high, eyes focused forward.  There's something about that that makes me weep.

When Sweetie and I were leaving the hospital after Ayslin was born last week, I noticed this saying on the wall. I don't recall ever hearing it before.

"The difficult we can do at once, the impossible just takes a little longer."

U.S. Seabee Motto.

May the day soon come when we celebrate an everlasting peace that so many men and women have died to procure. Merry ME