Her words, from her heart
For my first post, I thought it would be more appropriate if these words from my sister Diana were shared. She was reluctant to post them anywhere, and I told her that if she didn't, I would. I'm keeping my word. My only regret is that I didn't post them earlier this month, for reasons that will soon be obvious. From this point on, the words are from my sister Diana:
I'm not very sure which year it was, but I remember that it was a beautiful day in June. The sun was shining. The sky was a blue that those of us born before smog was invented can appreciate. Once in a while a snowy white cloud would roll by, but for the most part, the air was still. Usually on a day like this you could hear birds singing, or children yelling and most often as not, you could hear their voices blending into the noises of summer.
This particular day was different, and at the same time it was the same as other days gone by. It was different because it wasn't your regular summer day, filled with the laughter of people enjoying the summer, and it was the same as so many other days gone by because of the ritual about to take place.
As usual, I was terrified. I tried to stand behind my parents so they could shield me from what was about to come. My father was standing there, so tall and brave in his Army Air Force uniform. My mother, beautiful once again in her black dress. They wanted their children to be respectful of other people's feelings so we had to stand next to them, showing family support to my great-aunt and great-uncle on my father's side of the family.
I can still hear it now, the lonely sound of Taps. I don't remember if it began before my great-aunt started to sob. I only know it became unbearable, not only for me, but also for those around us who had come to help bury a loved one. I could hear other softer sobs floating through the crowd. I could see my grandmother holding her sister's hand, trying to comfort her. At the same time, she would touch a locket hanging from her neck where she had the photos of my two uncles who were in the Army and were somewhere in Europe. My uncles had survived that terrible day in June, that all of the adults were talking about. Their cousin did not.
The bugle stopped it's mournful sound. The adults were crying openly now and I was trembling. I pulled my hand away from my mother and covered my ears, but that didn't help. The soldiers that had been quietly standing by away from the crowd began to raise their rifles. Their commander gave the order to be ready. They aimed skyward, then fired. I started to run away from the sound, but didn't get very far. My father grabbed me and said "Don't be afraid. They are honoring our cousin who died in battle. He did a brave thing, so this is the way our country shows it's respect for the sacrifice he made."
I don't remember how many times I had heard this explanation already, nor how many times I heard Taps, or the 21-gun salute, with the awful smell of acrid smoke it left in the air. I just tried to take comfort in my father's words, even though I knew we would be going through this ritual again someday, afraid that the next time, it would be for him.
POSTER'S UPDATE: I am happy to add that our father not only survived WWII, but is with us today. My sister spent Father's Day with him, and I will see the both of them next week. FYI, when this story occurred, I had not been born yet.