A simple email from our insurance company kicked up the emotional dust this time.  As I sat in my car in a store parking lot, I skimmed the message that thoughtfully suggested ways to honor the heroes of our military who had made the ultimate sacrifice over the Memorial Day weekend.

Remembering those on Memorial Day included thoughts on posting a tribute, visiting a wall of honor in Washington, D.C., joining a charity run, or simply reading the poem, “In Flanders Fields,” written after a battle in World War I by John McCrae.

The poem was provided, but it was one I knew well, having been required to memorize it in 8^th grade English class.  As the bright sun warmed me through the car window, I silently recited the first lines to myself:

“In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row and row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.”

In the quiet space around me, my thoughts turned to that 13 year old girl committing each word to memory not knowing they would one day take on deep meaning for me.  As I slowly pulled my car from the parking lot, my mind lighted on further lines of the poem.

“We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.”

What had dawn felt like to Dan on his last day?  Had he felt the sunset glow just before a blast in a combat zone so far from home, so far from me, took him away? I could never know, but if I did it wouldn’t change the finality of that day.

I drove through the peaceful small town streets and couldn’t help but notice banners hanging from each telephone pole with the face of a hometown servicemember long gone but now honored in this way. Dan’s face could just as well be hanging from one of those poles declaring, “We remember.” After these many years, the thought of it somehow still seemed surreal to me.

Tears threatened to overwhelm me.

I remembered.  Every day I remembered. Buried deep, just under the surface, or spilling over into daily life itself, I remembered.

Pulling into the driveway of my home, I let the tears fall until they are ready to stop.  They will return sometime, I know, when I hear a song, think I recognize a face and short haircut in a crowd, or maybe read another email from our insurance company.

But when they do, just as with every time, I will ride the wave of emotions knowing they are only part of the colorful story of that 13 year old girl. She has seen a lot of miles and hopefully has many more to go, but she knows now that beyond the poetry of life there is a collection of glimmers that can always outweigh a darkness.