The Long Way Home

          Trisha knew where Daddy had gone; she knew, in her child’s understanding, why he had to go. What troubled me was how to explain to her that Daddy had come home, but he had come the long way, would not be able to embrace her or tickle the musical laughter from her, to kiss and hold her in the way only her daddy could. It tore at me more then: the lost promises, the now impossible future we had planned and the empty bed with which I still had not grown accustom. I could not dream of how to explain this to a child so young.

          I put her in a white dress crowded with tiny red flowers—it would not have done well to put her in black; it is not what he would have wanted. She giggled and squealed at all those attending and passed out hugs and sloppy wet kisses, like offering a tiny antidote for their sorrow. Her spirit, unlike mine, was still wonderfully intact, but only because of the innocence I still allowed her, at least I thought.

          There is something to be said about the perceptions of children. She watched the honor guard, and God bless her, she did not cry or scream when they fired those seven guns into the air. Trish was the perfect little lady even after I had given over to sobbing. She took my hand during these times, her eyes a well of understanding and sorrow, but not for Daddy or for herself, just for Mommy. The experience of her six years poured through a heart that, unlike mine, simply refused to be ruined.

          When the Marine approached, the folded flag held between his gloved hands, I saw a tear trekking the length of his cheek. He was the perfect look of a soldier, a black man with a granite face, cropped hair and perfect uniform. He was not simply impressive in his representation of a Marine, he was intimidating, but for the single tear. That is when I realized he had lost also, a fellow Marine and brother, and mourned it as I did; as my family did.

          I took the flag, and held it in my lap, so utterly moved by this soldier and his shared grief. He saluted me with sculpted reverence, an unwarranted gift, and moved away. Trisha touched the flag with her hand, gently as if it were a precious thing and fragile beyond the hands of a child. She looked deep into me and smiled a sad smile. This was when I realized I did not have to explain anything to her, she understood as well as a child could what had happened to her daddy.

          In the following years, I occasionally caught her talking to the flag, now atop the mantel in a pine and glass case. She told it of the accomplishments and milestones of her life as it progressed, shared with it the joys and triumphs, the losses and sadness. The brilliant symbol of our country had become her father, at least to her, and she suffered little because of it. Like her father would have, it always had time for her, it always listened to her, and somehow I knew he heard every word, and was at peace.