Straying From the Path Read Free

when this collection was put together, it still stands.

Peace in Our Time
    Two trumpets in harmony called “Taps” through a cemetery at the edge of a winter prairie. The congregation stayed rigid, forced to stillness by the song. Ken and I stood on the other side of the grave, apart from the others. The last sad note held, echoing with the wind, and faded. Ken shut off the digital player, and I presented the flag.
    The words came rote. I didn’t hear myself saying them. They were a continuation of the recording.
    “On behalf of the United States of America, the Veterans of Foreign Wars Post Eternity presents this token of respect and appreciation for your husband’s service to his country.”
    We had a recording of “Taps” because no one could play it on trumpet anymore. Matt Barber was the last one I knew who could do it, and he died five years ago. I gave the flag to his son at his funeral.
    I had done this so many times, given tightly folded triangles of American flags to widows, sons, daughters, grandchildren. I never wanted to give away one. When I was twenty-one and coming home from China I thought I was done with death. But it started again, a dozen or so years ago. Now, I watched my friends fall to old age, and once again there was nothing I could do but stand at their funerals. I hated this duty then and I hated it now. But someone had to do it. Someone had to stand at attention by the caskets, play “Taps,” and carry the flag to the family.
    There were only two of us left.
    VFW Post Eternity was the last. It was a special outfit, unlike any of its predecessors. It wasn’t tied to one town or community, its members hadn’t necessarily served together. As people died, as memberships thinned, we combined our posts, clinging together for numbers until there was just this one. We traveled to funerals all over the country with our vests, our medals, the recording, and the flags. None of us would be buried without the last respect, the last military honor.
    None of us, except the last.
    I used to think they’d stop burying people before I came to this, but some traditions lingered, like the old farming town of Hope’s Fort with its single main street and faded buildings. No matter how big the cities got, there’d always be a few small towns with an old brick post office attached to the feed store, and there’d always be people who wanted to be put in the ground in the same crowded cemeteries their families had been buried in for decades.
    I thought I’d be dead and buried myself by now, before I had to serve at the funeral of the third-to-last American war veteran.
    Paul Hoover had been well-loved in this community. Three-quarters of the town must have been there, wearing somber dress clothes, huddling in their coats, fending off the February chill. The family sat in plush-covered folding chairs, staring at us over the casket with round, stunned eyes. All eyes were dry. There was a sense of relief; Paul had been ill for some time.
    To most of the congregation, Ken and I were a surprise, and I could sense the unasked questions: Who are these guys, what are they doing here? We looked out of place with our blue caps and vests dotted with pins, commemorations, awards, the red ribbon with the blue and black stripes for service in Pan-Asia. No one knew what any of it meant anymore.
    Allison Hoover was, as her husband Paul had been, pushing a hundred. Small, wasted to bones and wrinkled skin, she looked like she’d blow away in the stiff winter breeze without her sons and grandchildren bracing her on both sides. I couldn’t read her expression when I handed her the flag. Her squinted, dark eyes looked past me, her mouth was an immobile line. She took the flag from me with a strong grip, though, cradling it, stroking the fabric with a finger.
    Out of all of them, the spouses seemed grateful when I gave them the flag.
    I wondered sometimes if the families and friends resented our presence, the reminder we