I'm old enough to remember that Memorial Day was celebrated on May 30th and the shift to change the date to the final Monday of May in order to create a three day weekend. But when I was a child, the meaning of the holiday was lost in the prospect of school ending and summer beginning, barbeques and picnics. Though my parents explained to me that the day was to remember those who died while serving, my experience of death was limited to a turtle, goldfish or a cat.
Even after my grandfather passed away, a man who fought in the Spanish American War, Memorial Day was still too nebulous. But now that my father has died, a man who served his country during WWII, the Korean War and Vietnam, Memorial Day is a poignant observation.
I decided to head to Mystic and watch the Memorial Day parade march across the newly reopened drawbridge. With a lump often in my throat and tears blinked back, I watched the veterans, the fire engines, the high school bands, the antique cars all buffed and polished as flags waved and drums beat.
I observed a community gathered and filled with pride, resplendent in the sun after a cold rainy start to their weekend. I watched children as oblivious as I once was to the reason for the holiday and I yearned for their innocence to continue. I prayed for the day to come when this holiday shifts from honoring individuals who served to simply a day in memory of wars we no longer fight. I prayed for peace.
To the men and women who have given so much, thank you. You are not forgotten. You are in fact, remembered every day.
