The borrowed vehicle I drove to this tiny, small-town, country cemetery is now silent. Somehow despite my trembling hand, I’ve managed to turn the car off. My eyes stare through the windshield, straight down the country road. I needn’t turn my head to the left and look to where I believe the cemetery lies, I know it’s there. Spattering the hood of the vehicle I sit in are sun strewn shadows of leafy branches - barely in bloom. I hear the wispy, rigorous Michigan winds whipping the massive oak branches through the sky above me. I smell the damp, mid morning scent of freshly manicured grounds. I feel the silence of those buried to my left. There is no doubt I made it this far - I made it to the memorial grounds. Just that thought alone causes my eyelids to close as I grip the steering wheel with all my might. I curse my choice to come here. I curse myself for being emotional. I curse the phone call I received just a few weeks earlier. With eyes closed, I just curse - aloud.
My eyes open once more, only now I feel I can actually look around the tiny graveyard. Slowly I glance to my left. 30 to 50 headstones are visible from where I am. Perhaps even less then 30. I’ve never actually counted them. It’s tiny. The spaces between plots are large and beautifully up kept. 13 graves have small, American Flags planted against their headstones. In this tiny graveyard - the graveyard where most of The Sutterland family is buried - including David - 13 of the deceased served My Country. It’s Memorial Day and the site of the American Flags fluttering under the magnificent oaks brings a sad, grateful, bittersweet smile to my face. Tears well in my eyes. My left hand reaches over to the passenger seat where the item I brought with me lies, right next to my Dress Blues Cover.
Straightening my Dress Blues, I reach for my cover and place it neatly under my arm. Opening the car door, I extricate myself from the vehicle. As if by instinct, I straighten, place my cover upon my head - ensuring it’s precise alignment, and I tug once at the bottom of my Dress Blues Jacket. Gently i tug on my formal, white gloves. Then, knowing my uniform is perfect, I gently reach in and get the item I brought with me. I drop the keys onto the car seat, shut the car door and then glance around behind me. No one is watching. Finally I take a deep breath.
It took only 10 or so steps for me to walk from the car to the tiny, paver-filled walkway that symbolizes the open graveyard entrance. When my regulation high heels hit the bricks, the noise startles me. I stop. For a split second my mind screams to go back to the car - to drive way before I see the memorial the other Marines called and told me they placed here.
Suddenly, my body forces me to inhale as if it were my last breath. Then I feel my heart cinching so tightly upon itself that it no longer allows itself to beat. I taste blood, coppery and warm in my mouth and can feel my teeth biting through my bottom lip - but I’m powerless to stop this. Somewhere in my shattering mind, I know I’ll live through this - or I won’t, but stopping the physical agony is beyond my power right now.
I hate myself for that.
I can’t tell you how long I stood on that tiny square of pavers. I stood long enough that eventually breath did come back to my lungs. I stood long enough that my heart was forced to beat again. I stood there until I knew my legs could walk. With one last glance around, I entered the tiny cemetery. While I knew most names on the headstones, i walked as softly as possible back to the left-hand corner of the cemetery where David’s parents, and the rest of the Sutterland family were buried.
Aunt Marie and Uncle Tim - David’s Aunt & Uncle, Marie and Ed - David’s Parents, Grandma’s and Grandpa’s on both sides, the sister born and passed away prior to David’s birth, Em - our daughter, Timothy - David’s son, and my niece - Timothy’s girlfriend - all of them and more were buried in a beautifully laid out section of the cemetery. When I came upon young 42 aka Timothy’s grave, I couldn’t help but to bend and kiss his headstone. He and my niece loved one another at such a young age. 42, as i called Timothy had been my “first” son. This was the first time I was seeing their graves.
I stood there for the longest time, looking at each of the family members headstones. They’d been so much more then the smattering of dates of birth’s and death’s on each headstone. I realized how deeply I missed them and smiled as sad, slow tears built in my eyes. But I didn’t cry. Somewhere in this insane brain of mine, I knew I couldn’t cry - after all I was in my finest dress blues. I didn’t cry and I didn’t fall apart. I did stand there for a while though. Perhaps too long. Had it not been for the squirrel who ran from one tree, down to the ground, across my line of sight and then further to the left - I might not have turned to look at that which I couldn’t face. The Memorial.
“We felt something should be put up Ma’am and well….” the Marine’s voice faded off over my phone as he paused for a breath, “The one place we all knew they’d meet up and feel at home was up at Sutterland’s place. So we’re thinking of putting it there. What do you think?” The Marine waited as I stared at nothing while holding my cell phone to my ear.
I couldn’t tell them no, could I? They’d called not asking my permission, but seeking my “blessing/approval” of their Memorial idea to David, John, Tom and My daddy - “The Guys”. I had managed to utter something that sounded of approval and said I’d try to make their Memorial Dedication. I didn’t make the dedication. I couldn’t because - well, I was afraid to go.
Now, weeks later a silly squirrel scampered through the cemetery and my eyes followed it. The squirrel raced over Timothy’s headstone, paused to skeeter at me and then ran straight over David’s Grave and up the base of the Memorial the Marines had erected.
As soon as my eyes saw it, I throat constricted. Violent, painful tears instantly welled and then let loose in a torrent down my cheeks. I felt my body shaking so violently I could barely stand, and then, as I drew a ragged, shallow breath; the trembling shook me down, literally to my knees.
“Oh GOD” I squeaked, saying those two words for the first time in my life to what I hoped was a God, some God, a force bigger then me, because right then - i was dying. Literally.
Before me, on a large, square base, was the Memorial those who had known “The Guys” had designed. It is black, black marble, polished to the finest gleam. Carved into the marble, or made from the marble somehow was a black, circa 1960’s style ammo crate with the lid held open by an 8×10 picture in a marble frame.
Nausea welled up and as I started gasping for any kind of air I could get into my burning lungs, I clutched the item I’d carried with me virtually all of my years. As i blinked past tears that poured down my face, I heard myself ….. scream? Wail? - Whatever the word you want to use, it was primal and came from someplace in my soul that until that point, I had not know existed.
The picture. My eyes focused soley on the picture, and my hands clutched the item to my chest so hard - as if to draw it inside my body, as if to protect it from the deathly image before me. Nothing in my life, not even their deaths had been crueler to my heart then this moment. I remember begging only one word as I cried, “No…”
No amount of begging changed the picture before me. But, with time and gut wrenching sobs, somehow I managed to quiet down. Carefully, I scooted closer to the memorial. Quietly I stared at the four men who’d been my entire heart soul for most of my life. Sadly I recalled the day I took the picture now memorializing them.
For years my daddy flew an American Flag from whatever home we lived at. Every morning and every night I’d watch as he flew, or retired his flag. Over the years, i’d watched as Daddy’s men also preformed the ritual with their unit flag. I had been 14 years old when I started requesting my own flag. At that time I’d beg, plead, cajole and basically annoy anyone, just to get them to listen.
“but Daddy,” I’d pleade sweetly. “I have to have my own flag, one I can raise and lower while all of you are gone. One I can keep flying while you’re away making sure I’m free to fly it. ”
Daddy always said something in reply that translated into, “Brat, you can use my flag while we’re deployed.”
I’d protest that it wasn’t the same. He’d shake his head and kiss my forehead - but never would he allow me my own flag. It broke my heart. I swore to oneday own the biggest American Flag EVER - just to show him! Once I toyed with the idea of destorying his flag - but that would have been traitorious so I couldn’t follow through. In the end, i suffered silently - but only for a while.
It was 4th of July and daddy sent someone to find me at my favorite fishing hole. He wanted me to report home, so of course, I did. when I got there I found daddy, Tom, John and David enjoying a few cold ones while barbequeing something on the grill. They chit chatted and bassically annoyed me. I started to leave when Daddy spoke up.
“Hey Brat, we got somethin for you.” he said.
“Yeah Brat - you’ve been pretty good - for the last two hours,” Tom teased with a wink.
“And you ain’t been getting on our nerves all that much Brat,” John added.
But it was David who remained silent while he stood on our porch steps grinning. I’d looked to Daddy, trying to figure out what hose they’d use to dowse me with, or who had the water balloons when he nodded to David. “Go on Sutterland, give it to her.”
David walked down the steps. “But you gotta keep your promise and fly her for us when we’re away!” and with that he handed me my first American flag.
That was the first present in my life that ever stunned me silent and made me cry, and it was the most beautiful gift I’d ever been given - to this day!!!!!!!!!
I don’t know how long, or how many times I thanked them, hugged then, kissed them or kissed my folded up American Flag that 4th of July, but when it came time to hang her, I stopped and made one last request of the four men whom I loved more then life itself. “Ya’ll must hang her the first time, so she’ll know who she waves for!”
They might have thought it corny then, and looking back now - it probably was, but they did, all four of them, together hung my American Flag - and I took their picture while they did it on my brand new 110 camera. The picture used in the Memorial was that picture - from that day so very long ago. It’s always been my favorite picture of them. No one could have know that was my fvorite picture. I never uttered that to a soul. But somehow when the men who created this Memorial chose something to represent the best of “The Guys”, they chose that picture.
It devastated me.
You see, sitting there in that graveyard, on my knees, in my dress blues, crying in a way I’d never cried before, I clutched to my chest that very same American Flag - the one they gave me, the one they hung, the one from the picture. It was my personal “Memorial” to them. My teeny, tiny way of leaving a trace of me, at a spot where anyone could go and honor them. After seeing the Memorial, it took everything in my power, every ounce of my soul to leave that tiny flag with them.
You see once upon a time, a long long time ago there was a little, red-headed, pig-tail wearing girl named The Brat. Born to a time where her peers were raised to be told they couldn’t do “this or that”, she was raised to do or be anything she ever wanted. She didn’t grow up in the same universe as her peers. Her universe was different, amazing, resourceful, mysterious, bountiful and wondrous. John was her “Earth” - grounding her to her love for life. Tom was her “Moon” -lighting her way through darkness so she’d see her own light coming forth from her soul. Daddy was her “Sun” - The life giving force that warmed her, brightened her, and grew her world around her, and David - David was her “Stars” - those twinkly, fragile, powerful sparkles of hope, love, faith and dreams.
“They Guys” were her universe and proudly each day she flew colors that reminded her of them, that reminded her of ALL of the men and women like them - always.
You see once upon a time, a long long time ago there was a little, red-headed, pig-tail wearing girl named The Brat. On Memorial Day 2009 that little girl snapped one final picture of the flag she’d leave in memory of “The Guys” and ALL Service Personel:

One upon a time, long long time I ago I swore, I’d never forget. And God help me, I haven’t.
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