Memorial Day

May 29, 2017

Greetings from where we remember,

Eighty years before.

Walking to the marble quarry, his lunch pouch bouncing against his hip, the man makes his way through the meadow that rings his little town.  The dew is heavy and soon his shoes are damp from walking through the grass.

He spends the day setting the wedges in the groove they have chiseled in the marble, and one by one, hammering them a few inches deeper.  When the slab is finally released from the mountain and lowered to the floor of the quarry it will be slid into position to be cut again so it can be lifted onto the wagons to be moved. 

He sits and eats his lunch, watching the horses work, straining to pull the enormous weight up the rise out of the quarry floor.  He knows from the sound that something is wrong, and watches as the wagon tips slightly and now the load is unbalanced.  The slab shifts and upends the wagon and crashes to the ground.

When the slab is finally raised again there is a triangle hunk that has broken off.  The man kneels to look at it.  The white marble is creased with blue and green ribbons in a pattern that almost looks like a butterfly.  The man smiles at nature’s intricacies and goes back to his work.

The triangle piece is carried to the port and sorted out, too small for the project that was it was ordered for.  It is loaded on the ship with the rest and begins its voyage across the ocean.

Seventy-two years before.

Men he will never meet have surrounded his village.  His own son is in the woods with his friends, part of the partisan resistance.  He is afraid, but more afraid for his son.  The Americans are coming, but maybe too late to help.  They have been listening to the big guns booming, but the soldiers in the meadows are closer, and more dangerous. 

He waits in his little courtyard, his village is quiet now.  And he sees three men in uniform, Americans, moving between the houses on his street.  They stop at his courtyard, kneeling behind the low wall and speak to him.  He motions as best he can to tell them where the enemy is waiting.  He cannot speak their language so he cannot tell them about his son, Michael, his only family, waiting afraid in the woods, with his friends, carrying an old hunting rifle, hoping to be of help.  He can only point and gesture.  One soldier, a private, whose name is stenciled on his uniform as ‘Clawson’, pats his arm as they leave. 

Seventy-one years and ten months before.

In a small town in a Midwestern state, a woman who has been asked to make too many choices in this week is asked to make another.  She stands with her husband, both of them tired, eyes red from crying, sick from grief.  The man who is showing them gravestones speaks in quiet tones, trying to be considerate.  He has known the Clawson family for his whole life, and does not love this part of his job.

She pauses at one stone.  It has been cut into a rectangle, but not quite square, narrowing at one end.  The whiteness is striking, but she is drawn to it by the ribbons of color, blue and green intersecting in the face of it.

“It is beautiful isn’t it?  We don’t often get Cararra marble here.” the man says.  “Took some work to save the best part of it, it was almost a triangle when we got it.”

Sixty years before.

Michael Moretti walks down the gangway from the ship, his bag in one hand, all he owns inside it.  In his pocket is a letter from his father.  He has read it so many times the paper is soft from being handled.  Michael will never see his father again, but he carries him with him each day.

Now he is starting over in America.  It is the chance his father wanted for him.  He will make the most of it.  He walks across the pier from the ship and out into the future that was given to him.

Forty years before.

Another war has ended.  The cemetery has new stones surrounding the Clawson plot.  Some are larger, some more elaborate, but no one passes without noticing the white marble with the blue and green veins.

The Clawsons moved away when they could not take care of the house anymore.  Their only son was gone, and there would never be grandchildren.  They hated to leave.  They could only hope that someone would tend to their son’s grave.

Twenty years before.

Michael waits in the neat little house with his wife.  His son and his family will be here soon for the cook out.  Their car pulls into the drive and the grandkids boil out of the car and soon the house is filled with noise.

He love them all, but holds a special place for Cararra, his granddaughter,  blonde haired and blue eyes, always wants to sit in his lap.  She never tires of his stories and always calls on his birthday.  His refrigerator is covered with her art.

Michael has his traditions, and before they go to the parade he asks them this one indulgence.  He gathers his family around the table and takes the framed letter from the wall next to the door. He puts on his glasses and translates the words from his father.  He tells them, as best he can, how it was possible for him to be here, and that he will always remember the sacrifices that were made for him.

Today.

The car comes to a stop at the small parking space and Cararra gets out.  She helps her son Michael out of the back seat while her husband gets the flowers and the flags from the trunk.  Pulling a small wagon loaded with the flowers, they make their way along the path that leads among the gravestones.

She holds Michael’s hand as they place the flowers, with a flag in each to honor the veterans. They walk from place to place, touching the stones as they go.   The dew is heavy and soon their shoes are damp from walking through the grass.  She answers Michael’s questions as best she can, wanting him to know why they are here.  He is too young to fully understand, but there will be many Memorial Days to share, and he will know one day.

They stop at the Clawson stone and pull away a few overgrown grasses from around the edge of the white marble.  She remembers this grave every year, because the stone is so beautiful.  She bends to place the pot of flowers and Michael pushes the small American flag on a stick into the soil.  He puts his hand on the gravestone and looks up at his mother, smiling.

“Look Momma,” he says “It looks like a butterfly landed right there.”

She laughs and looks closer and sees what he sees.  And something is lifted into her heart, a sensation she knows is love.  She looks at her son, and at the stone that belongs to someone else’s son, and knows.

Hope this finds you honoring what has been given,

David

Copyright © 2017 David Smith