The grandfather walks contemplatively, hands behind his back. The little girl and her brother giggle as they march behind him, hands fisted, knees high. They can’t see that he smiles as well, but they know. The setting sun glares through the trees, painting the world in orange, and grasshoppers scamper around the lawn like popcorn, narrowly avoiding the kids’ stomping feet. The world is quiet except for the sounds of summer crickets and laughter.
“Attention!” The grandfather commands as they stop next to the flagpole. The children salute, their feet together, as they have done these past few nights as soon as the dusk has coaxed the fireflies out of their hiding.
The girl squints as she cranes her neck to look at the flag. With the bright sun in her eyes, she can barely see it. She turns instead to her brother, and he looks back at her, and they immediately burst into laughter once again.
The grandfather lowers the flag, all the while playing Taps by blowing ridiculously out of his pursed lips, laughing as well. The flag reaches the ground.
“At ease.” The kids step their feet apart, placing their hands behind their backs, still jubilantly amused by this game of soldier-and-drill-sergeant.
“Let me fold the flag, Pop!” the brother says.
“No, you helped me this morning. It’s your sister’s turn.”
The girl moves from her post, prepared to take the flag. As the grandfather unclips it from the line, she gazes beyond him to the house. Through the windows, she can see her mother at the stove, her grandmother stretching tall to reach a high shelf in the kitchen, and her father and older sisters playing in the adjacent living room. It is almost time for dinner.
The grandfather hands her one end of the flag so she can help fold it, just like he taught her. They smile at each other, the flag between them.
Together, they fold it in half, perfectly in sync.
Together, they fold it in half again. White gloves carefully crease the flag after each fold. The men are stiff and robotic, staring stoically past each other, the flag between them.
It is unbearably cold and bright, especially having just left the warm, dim church. The young woman’s knees knock together as she shivers, and she turns to look at her brother. He does not turn to her. There are tears welled in his eyes.
The military men are almost finished folding the flag in its triangular shape. The world is quiet except for the sounds of nearby traffic and sniffling.
The grandmother’s hand shakes as she lifts it from her walker to accept the flag from the military man. The man salutes to her bent, trembling form. His shoes scrape against the sidewalk as he pivots mechanically and marches back to his spot, hands flat, knees straight. His partner hands him a trumpet and he plays Taps. The sound is loud and reverent. In the stillness that follows, it is easy to hear everyone crying.
