Remembering
by Eva Vriens

My soft cheek rests against your shoulder, feeling the rough and scratchy fabric of your uniform. I don't mind. I like the smell of you.

You are leaving again to fight in a war you do not want, for you are a peaceful man. A tall, strong man who lifts me up and dances me around a field of golden buttercups. Who makes me believe I can fly if only I flap my arms fast enough, like the huge white storks that nest on our rooftop.

I kiss your stubbly chin and put my small hands to your face and look deep into your dark blue eyes. "Don't go, Papa. Don't go," I whisper. And, sadly, you shake your head. Your shiny black boots that reach up to your knees make hollow sounds as you walk across the cobbled courtyard to the waiting army truck.

I will remember you as I sit on the step and watch the swallows build their nest under the eaves around your idle fishing poles. As I try to coax some music from your polished violin. As I watch the storks fly back and forth, bringing food to their hungry young. As I watch raindrops running down the windowpane. As I dance my lonely dance across the meadow of long-dead buttercups.

As my granddaughter puts her tiny hands on my face, looks into my eyes, and kisses my wrinkled cheek - I will remember you.