Echoes Of the Fallen

A mother and her children face the shadows of grief and upheaval on Memorial Day.

Every May, the highway stretches long and gray,
a concrete ribbon cutting through the fog of memory.
I drive until the headstones rise like silent teeth
from the perfectly manicured, emerald hills—
a quiet empire built on heavy sacrifice.

I bring no flags, no pristine wreaths of plastic flowers,
just the crushing weight of a thirteen-year-old’s shadow
and a sister’s fierce, protective, quiet rage.
We stand before the marble marker bearing your name,
the father who slipped through the cracks of a broken world,
lost to a war fought in the dark alleys of the soul.

They call it Memorial Day, a time for uniforms and brass,
but grief doesn't wear a uniform; it wears a faded t-shirt
and lives in a crowded bedroom at Grandma’s house,
wondering why the lights went out on the only life we knew.
The battlefield didn't end when the dust settled over there;
it followed us home, fracturing minds and breaking walls.

My son looks at the grass, his thoughts a tangled web
of voices and echoes he shouldn't have to fight at thirteen.
My daughter turns her back, her anger a beautiful, defensive shield
shielding a heart that feels entirely abandoned by the sky.

But standing here amidst the thousands who fell,
I realize the shadows haven't won just because they are long.
We are the walking wounded, yes, but we are still walking.
I take their hands—one cold and pulling away, one trembling—
and I anchor them to the earth, to the present, to me.
We do not honor the dead by giving up on the living.
We shape the shadows left behind,
and we find a way to breathe.