Young ManA Story by M.R. Enger We were told to write a story about a character who appears, does something of significance, then disappear. I hope you like this heart warming short. Like angels they appeared. Seven
young boys crept their way to my father’s casket. They did not make a sound
when they walked, drifting across the room. Three on each side and a young man on the end, they surrounded
my father. Seven young boys caressed the American flag draped over his casket. They
gently lifted the flag and pulled it tight from all angles. Their eyes were
stern and focused. They began folding the flag. White gloves covered their soft
touching hands, the whitest I’ve ever seen. Without flaw, their uniforms flowed
to the marble floor like waterfalls. The young man on end began flipping
corners of the flag. He flipped a corner. Another corner. He folded quick, then
paused. He slowly creased each fold like origami. His work was unhurried, but
precise. The other six boys were still standing tall and firm over father like
statues. The young folder’s eyes took my
breath away. So blue. As the rest of his team stood silent, eyes straight
forward, the young man folding took the flag and examined it thoroughly with
robotic movements. He again caressed the nine visible stars the flag’s
stitching had protruded. I was in love with his gentle touch. I was in love
with his compassion. His respect. He pulled the flag to his chest.
Both arms draped parallel with the flag’s shape. His hands were flat over the stars
and over his heart. My vision then drifted over to the casket. My eyes began to
water. My throat tightened. My father was gone. The kid turned and took a few
hovering steps forward. He turned again, toward me. He stopped. For the first time, his eyes met
mine. Like his hands to the flag, his eyes were soft. He showed no emotion, yet
I know what he is thinking. This boy did not know my family, my father, or me.
Yet his bright blue eyes told his story of remorse and compassion. He began my way. I was to be given the flag. I sat
up proper. I knew my attempt at balancing my posture with my soaked eyes and
running mascara would fail. With each step closer, he made my throat tighter.
He stood over me like a giant. He had brought me death. He had brought me proof
of real sadness. I felt cold, but the shadow his body casted over me made me
feel warm. His eyes were still deeply focused on mine. He slowly knelt onto a
knee to match my height in the chair. As he reached to the top corner of
the flag, I let go. I had to. My cries killed the quiet in the room. The young man did not flinch. Both of his soft cotton hands
pinched the flag and slid it threw the moistened air and just above my lap. I embraced
the flag like he had. Without letting go, he spoke. Etching his words deep into
my heart. “On behalf of the President of the
United States. Department of the Air Force. And a grateful nation, we offer our
nation’s flag. For the honorable and dedicated service rendered by your loved
one.” He let go of the flag. I stared at
it. I held what was left of my father against my chest. As the bugle sounded Taps, My eyes closed. I felt the young
man’s warm shadow still hugging my aching presence. I remembered the good times
with my father. The bad. The sad. I remembered everything I possibly could.
Years of memories had hurried through my mind in a minute’s time. As the final
memory brushed my heart, I lifted my head. My eyes opened. The young man was gone. The guards
that were erected over my father’s casket, gone. It was me. Me and my father,
held tightly in my lap. © 2013 M.R. EngerAuthor's Note
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