Guest blogger, W.M. Stahl, author of The Traveler’s Adventure’s in Valdore: The BeginningTales From the Strange Mind of Me: Short Stories and Essays. See more about W.M. Stahl HERE.

I always struggle with my words when I write for Memorial Day. This piece may end but I doubt it will ever be finished.  There is but one official birthplace for the holiday and yet do we really care where or how it was begun? We know that mothers, wives, daughters, fathers and sons have been placing flowers on the graves of their fallen soldiers long before this holiday began. I offer this for those who come after so we all remember those who came before and paid the price for our unfinished business.

‘Freedom is Unfinished Business’ or so it said on the back of a T-shirt I saw once somewhere in North Carolina. It was worn by a gray-bearded man on a motorcycle sitting at a stoplight. As he rode away I saw a POW/MIA patch sewn on the leather saddlebags and on the back of his vest. I knew what I needed to say, but couldn’t, as the light changed and he sped away. I wished that I would have stuck out my hand, taken his, thanked him and welcomed him home.

When I sit amongst the headstones I look down the rows and I see the flags and flowers. It seems to me that this time of year in a field of grass and stones those flags and flowers are always bright and new. With spring nearly over and summer around the corner, the grass is as green as it will be and the flowers that grow wild are in full bloom.

I close my eyes and I almost see them, standing by their headstones. Men and women dressing in their best dress uniforms; they seem to be waiting. It is then that I remember that tomorrow is the day we honor them. I can almost hear the footsteps in the distance of others walking in cadence step. They are coming down to stand at attention and wait. Some are shaking hands with old friends or giving hugs and then reaching out and welcoming the newcomers. They are all members of same group of those who served and paid; some with their lives, some with a part of their lives.

They are all together in this place of grass and stone. Those new to the group stand off to the side, a bit wary of what to expect. Those who have been there take each one and help them, letting them see and know that they too are honored and part of the group. They are standing around talking, although I cannot hear what they are saying.  I’m startled by a noise and they disappear. I watched as more flags are placed, grass is mowed, headstones are straightened and dusted off and I am reminded once again that tomorrow is Memorial Day. I close my eyes again to try to see, then I rise and leave them to their preparations.

As I leave the field of grass and stones I walk past a freshly-dug grave and I look down into the empty hole and pray that those gathered are not gaining another soul. As I look back and see the marker for the headstone I see the little flag waving in the gentle breeze I know somewhere close by a family grieves. I dare not look at the name for I need not know. All I need to know is that another brave soul comes to rest, among the field of grass and stone.

As I woke on Memorial Day, I hurried to be part of the festivities beginning with the parade down Main Street that would end at the cemetery. The speeches would come next, under the old oak tree. The politicians did their best as the crowd of all ages stood among the markers and listened as tributes were paid to those who rest there. After that, there was a barbecue at the park where families gathered to eat and play. Later, as the night closed in, we sat in awe of the fireworks that signaled the end of the day for those who paid.

The parade was long this year but still the high school bands marched on, leading us into the field of grass and stone. I took my place as I often do out-of-the-way and in the back. I paid little attention to those who spoke or the words they used. My eyes rested squarely on the bugler and on the seven men and women standing with rifles at the ready and waiting for their cue. Standing in formation, behind the politicians and those at the ready, as straight as they could in their best dress uniforms, were those I had seen just yesterday.

As the politicians stopped, the bugler put his instrument to his lips and let flow the taps. Behind him the group of men and women snapped off a solid salute and it seemed to me that they stood even straighter. Tears began to flow in the eyes of the men, women and children who came to honor those who lie in the field of grass and stone. Heads bowed and the solemn sound seemed to hold everything perfectly still. As the notes of the bugler echoed down the valley and out into the distance, the seven raised their rifles to the air, each firing three times to the order. As the seven lowered their rifles, the men and women behind them lowered their hands. Each smiled as they recognized family members who came to greet them there in the field of grass and stone. Each pointing out to the others how much one of the children looked like him.

For the oldest among them it was harder to find any family now that it had been so long that they had been there in that soulful place.  Now it was the newest among them who showed them that they were remembered and honored by their family. The young children seemed to stare into space as they looked close at the figure that seemed only they and I could see. Some little babies cried and others laughed as if for no reason, but I knew and I saw it all. The smiles that were on the faces of the brave men and women in their best dressed began to fade.

I watched as they left before turning away. I heard them walk away in cadence step, some toward the park, others off to their resting place. As I turned I watched as one little boy holding his mother’s hand, looked back at the field of grass and stone. He began to wave and in the distance I saw what he was waving at. A young man came running down through the field wearing his best dress and stood next to the freshly-filled grave. Getting down on one knee, he blew the boy a kiss and waved back. The little boy smiled and then began to cry. Those in their best dress who had yet to leave, came to the man by the fresh grave, threw their arms around him and welcomed him as one of the group. While he was late for the ceremony, he was never too late to be honored and accepted into the group. He is now a part of those who have paid for something greater than you and I, greater even than him.

So to you, my friends and family and family of friends on this Memorial Day, visit the fields of grass and stone. Look for the flags of those men and women who have paid in full for our freedom. How you spend your day is, of course, up to you, but as you grill up your burgers and dogs, remember to fill your glass with your beverage of choice and offer up a toast to those who lie in the fields of grass and stone across this great country on God’s little blue planet. Offer up a salute in their honor and thank them as best you can. Think of them as you go about your day and remember that for them you would not be free. I can pass on to those who come after me this freedom and this country and I can tell the stories of those who paid in full. We as trustees of that freedom must honor those by passing on the stories and by ensuring that we elect officials who will not forget that freedom is truly unfinished business.

And still, our heroes come forward. They will always come because freedom is the most expensive commodity in the world and I know now that in a lifetime of living I cannot repay them. I can only thank them.