The old men sat under a canopy before the marble monument. They had fought in World War II. Many were in wheelchairs. All would soon die.
The warriors struggled to stand up for the advancement of the color guard, and they remained standing for the National Anthem, the Pledge of Allegiance, a prayer. They quietly retook their seats.
A retired general approached the podium and spoke about the nightmare war long ago and those who fought. He recalled how a multitude of ordinary citizens–janitors, farmers, factory workers–had come together to defend high ideals. The heads of the very old men did not move.
A singer was then introduced. She was a little girl, just seven years old. She wore a vest of silvery sequins. Her face was made up with red lipstick. Microphone in hand, the very young girl glided confidently onto the stage and raised two pale arms. With a booming voice she began God Bless America while her grinning father circled with a video camera, recording his starlet.
As she sang the tiny girl stepped down from the stage and sashayed with her microphone up to the inscrutable faces of the old men. Her own face beamed with affection, and her hands formed exaggerated gestures as she directly addressed each gray head. The performance seemed an act learned by a child from television. The bold familiarity, perhaps tolerable in an adult, was unsettling from a seven-year-old girl.
The girl’s voice climbed until it wavered. Her high voice strained to exploit every syllable of the song. It sought to imbue every word with an infinity of feeling. The child floated in front of the very old men with her twinkling eyes, and she smiled with absolute sincerity.
The heads of the warriors did not move.
As I observed this strange performance from the back row, I was struck by the eyes of the precocious little girl. Her eyes were so bright.
Then I understood.
The performance came from a little girl’s heart. She was a budding life. Her ambition was to shine. Her hope was to shine a bright light upon those who listened.
Before her sat warriors who had fought against darkness, and who would soon return to the inescapable darkness.
The song reached a resounding crescendo. The very young girl raised her hands theatrically, palms upward.
“. . . my home sweet home.”
Some of the old men struggled to their feet for a standing ovation. Some sat and wept.
4 thoughts on “A Song for Old Warriors”
Your work is always incredible, but this is even a cut above the norm. I’m going to link this on my writing-dot-com page. Those people appreciate good writing over there, and I’m pretty sure they’ll love this!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much, Jack. I just changed a couple words a second ago. But I think it’s about done now.
Jack shared the link to this at Writing.com, and I’m glad he did. This was beautiful writing.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you very much! As you know, compliments are reassuring to a writer. It can be hard to know if a piece is any good.