Four to five times a week, I walk Quinn at a local cemetery. Today, we deviated from our normal path and ended up just beyond the hill where the oaks lean into the wind like old men sharing secrets. It’s a quiet place; humble, timeless, sacred.
Quinn trotted ahead, his golden coat glinting in the morning sun like a living flame, gentle and alert. He always seems to sense what the heart needs before the mind does. Today, he led me to a grave I’d never noticed before.
The stone was worn and soft with age, nearly swallowed by moss and time. But there, fluttering freshly beside it, was a small American flag, bright and proud, anchored deep into the earth. Someone had remembered.
I knelt down. The name was almost unreadable. Lichen had crept into every groove. I reached out, placed my fingers into the cold, carved letters, tracing what once was a name, a story, a life. I closed my eyes, just for a moment. And suddenly, I wasn’t in the cemetery anymore.
I was on a battlefield, mud and fire all around. The air choked with smoke and fear. I saw a young man, barely more than a boy, standing firm in the chaos, his eyes full of resolve. He carried no bravado, just duty. He moved toward the gunfire, not away. I watched as he fell, his final breath not a cry of pain, but a silent prayer for those he would never meet, for the future he would never live. For me. For us.
I opened my eyes, my hand still resting on the name I could not read. Quinn sat beside me quietly, as if he too had witnessed the echo of a life remembered. This is Memorial Day.
It is not about the noise of fireworks or the start of summer. It is about this, the silent grave with a fresh flag, the young man whose name may be forgotten by time, but whose sacrifice must never be.
Today, Quinn and I remembered someone we never knew. And in doing so, we carried a piece of his story forward.
Let us all do the same.
Let us never forget the cost of our freedom. Not just today, but always.
With quiet gratitude,
Stories Past Present Future 