Rachel's
eyes snapped open.
It
was dark.
Across from her eyes, her clock read 2:47 a.m., but that was irrelevant. Her
room wasn't dark at 2:47, or at 3:47 or even 4:47 in the morning. Not for a
minute in the night was her bedroom considered dark. Shadowy sure, but dark,
NO!
Rachel threw back her sheets and hit the floor in her bare feet. How is this
even happening?
Her pulse had jumpstarted now, propelling her through the upstairs hall and to
the top of the stairs. Its mounting beat had her narrowly missing the thumping
tail of Everett. At her rush, the brown and white spaniel's nails scrambled up,
following Rachel down to the pantry off of the laundry room. Rachel didn't
bother to look for the stool that her stout form needed. She jumped up, felt
the box on the top shelf and grabbed it up. Obeying gravity however, the box
slipped and hit the ground. Everett rushed in and sniffed it out, but Rachel
shoved him off of it. She had the bow ripped open by the time she had the front
door agape.
The chilly March night reminded her of her short sleeves and her near slip
reminded her of the dew-glazed lawn. But Rachel was too determined for that.
She already had the 1800-watt bulb out as she wrestled between the bushes.
There were five of them that circled the proud, silver flagpole that erected
out of the middle.
I'll
get it back on! Rachel streamlined through her brain, fumbling her
fingers over the bulb. I'll get it back on, I'll get it...
The hexagon of shrubs sat back some ten feet from the curb and was a connector
between the homes of the Travolskys and the Cleveens. It had been long before
Rachel was even born. Mr. Cleveen- or P.B.- and Grandpa had both served through
Vietnam and Korea. Not together, but this knowledge had been enough to seal
their friendship when the Travolskys had moved in in 1986. Grandma and Bunny-
or Mrs. Cleveen- had bought the flagpole together; the flag too, for their
husbands. It had flapped proudly for them everyday since.
It
continued even now. Rachel could hear its coaxing waves overlapping with the
wind. But there was no light for her to see it with. And she couldn't get the
burned out bulb to uncork from the frame!
"Useless piece of..." Rachel trailed the sentence off, digging
her knees into the mulch, resolved in her seating until she had replaced the
bulb. Somehow, it had burned out. That was unacceptable! The flag was to always
be lighted, always above the ground...
"Everett, get!" Rachel pushed the canine back. She ignored his
whimper; she'd apologize later.
"Need help?"
Rachel's arms freaked, dropping the bulb that had finally come undone. She
looked up to see Uncle Corbin peeking down at her over the tops of the bushes.
He was an uncle in the sense that he and Rachel's dad had grown up almost
joined at the hip.
"I got it." Rachel insisted.
"I know." Uncle Corbin nodded. Then he squirmed through his family's
half of the shrubs, bent down, and held the lamp head steady for her. This gave
Rachel a second of pause before slipping the new bulb in, screwing it tight. At
her final turn, light beamed her and Uncle Corbin in the face. Rachel felt its
heat at once and fell back. And allowed herself to breath.
"This couldn't wait until morning?" Uncle Corbin muttered.
"No." Rachel told him, watching him from where he watched her on his
hunches. He glanced away to view up, up, up the pole. They listened to the flag
together, and Rachel knew where their thoughts were. Over the Midwest farmlands
and into the Middle East sand dunes... where Dad and Aunt Michelle were. Rachel
had familiarized herself with lots of pictures- some from Dad, others from the
Internet. One word associated them all- chalky. She often wondered what the air
would taste like there. Her dad was breathing it right now; so she and Grandma,
Grandpa and the Cleveens could breath in their own air.
They'll
see the light. Rachel reasoned, wrapping an arm around Everett's soft neck.
Dad'll see it. And as soon as he can, he'll come home.
'Our debt to the heroic men and
valiant women in the service of our country can never be repaid. They have
earned our undying gratitude. America will never forget their sacrifices.'
~President Harry S. Truman~
THE END
The passion to honor is felt.
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