Final Flight

Four more stops, a quick 2 block jaunt. Two hours to spare. Traveling light. Passport in hand.  Hopefully she'll be on time. Every year she swears she'll go. The best intentions. Plans her vacation around it, organizes her calendar, even commits to other people. No fail, something comes up. The flu. An out of town conference. An overrun on scheduled conference calls. But she knows the truth. If it's really important she can find a way, make the time, prioritize. It's once a year, for crying out loud. The same time, same day, same hour every single year. Her father would be disappointed, she knows this. She made a promise and broke it. It's almost like a phobia now. She sees the poppies pinned to every lapel, the veterans standing sentinel on corners, in subway stations, with their little boxes of fake plastic stickpin totems and she freezes up. She feels like a truant, skipping her duty, the daughter of a celebrated vet, granddaughter of a decorated soldier. It started 5 years ago, just after Grampy passed away. The grief. The ceremonies. Too much to bear so she begged off, making excuses about work and immoveable commitments. They knew, everyone knew. She was his baby, his favourite grandchild. The one unconditional male force in her life, always onside, filling her pockets with swedish fish and treat size Mars bars. She couldn't stand the thought of him not being there for her anymore so she disappeared. Her way of coping with the denial of her loss. Their loss. But he made her promise him one thing, one trip, one last journey that only she could make with him in tow. Back to the beginning, the place where he left so many friends and loved ones behind, scattered, blown up, buried, destroyed. It's been a long time coming. When dad died in April she knew she was out of time. Now the three of them will make the trip together. One final foray into the fields of France. She carries their ashes in ziploc bags tucked into her shoes underneath her sweaters, hoping to god she can smuggle them through customs. Her precious sand. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, from France to France.

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