The words are in my head when I wake.
Memorial Day.
I should write about it, I think.
But my brain is restless.
For one thing, the weather.
I rise with the sun and patter, barefoot, to the kitchen. Pink light is spilling through the blinds before I open them. Thunder rolls in the distance. The forecast is severe. I stand in the bay window’s rosy glow as a soft rainshower begins. No birds in sight. The usual morning chorus of robins, house finches, cardinals, Carolina wrens is paused. Silence, but for the occasional caw of a crow near the woods. My neighbors’ freshly-planted roses are blinding red against the green grass, the weathered-wood fence. Stark white curtains hanging from their gazebo flutter like ghosts, like prelude…what’s past is prologue, as states the murderous Antonio in The Tempest.
That’s the second thing. Ghosts.
The imagery distracts me.
I ordered a ghost from a catalog, once. When I was a child. True story.
It was disappointing.
That was before I knew that ghosts have many manifestations. And to be careful what you wish for.
There’s always a cost. Ghosts aren’t free.
Why I’m thinking this just now, as the sun fades away into gray, as the lights in the house blink, as the skies crack open, releasing the predicted deluge, as my little dachshund curls into a ball on the kitchen rug, shivering uncontrollably…I do not know, exactly.
On the table I have a small arrangement of red, white, and blue flowers, in honor of the day and my country’s fallen soldiers. I recall learning that my first real home was once an Army hospital morgue.
It’s dim, but I can remember living in that shadowy house at age three, until my family was forced out. I wonder which WWII soldiers were brought there before their burial, before my time.
I light a candle by the flowers, against the encroaching darkness. At the window, a tiny ember-red flash. Male ruby-thoated hummingbird, undeterred by the tempest, coming for a drink of sugar-water at my feeder. Over by the wooden fence,in front of the gazebo’s billowing white veils, a fluttering of blue wings… bluebirds seeking to feed their young. Despite all. Above all.
Sustenance.
New thought: That’s what this day is about.
Sacrifice, prayer, and peace, too…in fact, the word prayer is mentioned four times in the legal language for the holiday (read it for yourself: 36 U.S. Code § 116 – Memorial Day). Peace appears twice. Contextually, in a call to pray for permanent peace, according to each individual’s faith.
That’s in the law of our land.
As the storm descends, I pick up my trembling dachshund. There’s no way to tell him it’s only temporary. I can only hold him ’til it’s over. Sustenance. The lesson of the birds. The whole purpose of prayer. Of faith.
Memory. It’s for teaching. If what’s past is prologue…it cannot be changed; but the present, the future, can. If we remember. If we do not remember the past, as the saying goes, we are condemned to repeat it.
That’s the lesson of the ghosts.
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge
-sharing your writing is a true act of courage.
lit bits and pieces 
Love spending part of your morning with you. I think we may need the story of your mail-order ghost. Perhaps we can include our prayers for peace as part of Memorial Day celebrations.
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Ha – when that mail-order ghost memory suddenly returned to me, I thought about how fun it would be to write. Will let it simmer a bit until I figure out how I want to tell it. Thank you so much for reading and for your words, Ramona!
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Fran,
I also thought about writing about Memorial Day since I have two sons who are veterans. I did, however, also mention The Tempest in my post today. And I spent a lot of time yesterday revisiting g all Trump’s vitriol toward the military during his time in office, so there’s that past as prologue.If I were still teaching I think I’d focus more on poetry memorializing those who died in so many useless wars. We know Memorial Day isn’t that time of reflection envisioned in the law. My husband has a son who died as a child. Each year I ask if he wants to visit his son’s grave. We haven’t gone in many years. Anyway, I’m thinking about those ghosts. I worry about their return.
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Hi, Glenda, and thank you for your thoughts. I remember reading that your sons are veterans – I honor them and their service with sincere gratitude. My father-in-law was career Army and my dad was in the Air Force & reserves when he was young. My step-father-in-law served in WWII as a young man and saw the concentration camps after liberation. All are now buried in the same veterans’ cemetery. While they didn’t die during active service, of course we think of them on such holidays. Vitriol — is why I have not been much of a presence on social media since the last election, in fact, before that, really. I have no stomach for it. I think about how we humans, deep inside, crave and cry out for peace, yet our hearts are so often stirred to warring with one another, on small and large scales. I read something yesterday about useless/unjust wars. Point well-made. Yet people gave their lives…I so agree with your point about poetry as a focus. I was Googling various thing yesterday and suddenly my screen filled with a row of red poppies and the simple words “Thank you” – Google’s literary recognition of the day. Made my eyes tear up…as does the mention of your husband’s son, lost long ago. I hold you and your husband both in my heart, in this regard. Ghosts…I have a lot more to say about them, but as I have said a lot already (!!) I will just say their return is almost always disturbing. Unbidden is one thing; but bidden…well, that goes back to stirring things…again, thank you for your words here. I will come over in a moment and read what you have mentioned re: the Tempest!
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Fran, peace, peace here in your post too, as it is in the law of our land, asking people to pray for peace. Such a beautiful post of honoring and memorializing those who died for our country. Thank you for sharing your reflections with us today.
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Thank you, Denise, for your heart of grace and your always-encouraging words. I have been thinking of you often these days, following the loss of your sister. Peace to you, friend.
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Fran, that weather was something. You drew the scene and pulled us in to the billowing curtains, the feeling of ghosts.
I think that is a hilarious story that you ordered a ghost. And that it wasn’t free. I feel Dennis trembling and shared that moment with you when I had to evacuate the camper and take my 3 trembling stubborn ones to the bathhouse during the tornado warning where we were camping. I love this slice – it reaches across the miles and draws me in to your moments and helps me see yours in mine and vice versa. Powerful!
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