My Daddy’s Flag

My Daddy came through the front door carrying a very large bundle under his arm. He placed the bundle on the kitchen table and said, “They gave me the flag.” His eyes were downcast as he unwrapped the package and his lips pursed together to suppress rising emotions.

My mother, an accomplished seamstress, examined the flag and said, “This is beautiful wool, and the stitching is very carefully done, but who gave it to you?”

“The veterans.”

My father sat down and placed one hand on top of the still folded flag.

“But you’re not a veteran?”

Indeed, my father because of his flat feet and allergies to wheat was categorized four F. He was not able to serve in World War II. But that didn’t stop him from holding a full-time job and working nights and weekends at the Boston shipyard. He helped build a fleet that was sent abroad to support our fight against Hitler and his Nazis.

My father spoke quietly. “It was at the funeral of old Raymond. You know, the nice guy that comes into the store. He fought in Germany, talked about it all the time, came home with a bit of ‘shell shock’, never was quite able to get his life on an even keel after that. He was alone after his wife passed. That didn’t help. Well, they found his body on the sidewalk a few days ago. Folks, knowing he was a veteran, contacted the local veterans group. But because he had no one, they were going to bury him in Potter’s field.”

Here, my father stopped. His hand still on the flag he looked up at my mom and I and said: “He fought for his country. He deserved better. So, I gave him a proper burial at St Michael’s.”

“Of course.” My mother said.

“The priest and I were the only ones there until two veterans showed up. They placed this flag on his coffin. Father Murray said some prayers and I said goodbye to Raymond.”

My father broke down in tears.

The flag has been in our family since that day and flown with pride. Not only to honor our veterans but also to honor my Dad, one of the bravest and kindest people I have ever known. When I passed the flag down to my daughter, I told her that the story of this flag must always be shared. Now my granddaughter also knows the story of her great-grandfather’s flag, that will one day be hers.

Always,

Azra