I had meant to post the following short, short story
in time for Remembrance Day, but I forgot.
My bad. This story was published
by Polar Expressions in the anthology “The Stand” in 2017.
PARADE OF SORROW
Cora’s
left hand pulled her collar closer around her neck. Her right hand gripped her umbrella tighter,
struggling against the cold and wet November gusts assaulting her. She stood on the sidewalk in the little town
of Aldergrove, waiting for the somber parade of war veterans, determined to
remember the fallen. She came every
November eleventh, part of the meager crowd that still honoured the dead
instead of following the siren call of holiday shopping.
She
remembered the first time she came, proud and eager to see her ten year old son
marching in his uniform as a Navy League Cadet.
He had joined because his friend belonged. He’d been so proud to receive his uniform and
meticulously kept it cleaned and ironed.
When the cadets passed by, she had seen him marching tall and sure,
confident he knew where he was going and how to get there.
Even
though they had moved away and his life went in other directions, the self-discipline
and integrity he acquired as a cadet never left him. He was an honour student and he worked part
time. He saved his money and bought a
car. He was a man long before he reached
the age of majority.
In
his final year of high school, he joined the military as an officer cadet. In return for the four years of university he
would subsequently serve as an officer for five years in the Royal Canadian
Horse Artillery, minus the horse. Big
machinery had long since replaced the equine component of the army.
No
sooner had he graduated from high school than Cora’s son was gone, swallowed by
the army at the Royal Military College in Kingston. She remembered him telling her his training
stipulated that his comrades in arms were now his family. As a mother, she’d been dispensable.
Oh,
he came home on leave once or twice a year, still in touch with family and old
friends. When he graduated as a second
lieutenant, Cora had been both proud and tearful. Proud her son had accomplished so much. Tearful for she knew the drum he marched to
would lead him further away.
And
it did. To a base at Shilo in
Manitoba. To a danger zone in
Bosnia. Back home to Kingston. To Afghanistan. To Kandahar.
To a forward operating base outside the wire fence. To an improvised explosive device. To death.
To a ramp ceremony. To the air
force base at Trenton and a ride in his casket down the highway of heroes. To the military cemetary in Ottawa.
Now
Cora stood in the rain, waiting for the vets.
Waiting to remember her son.
Waiting for another chance to grieve.
_________________________
By Lisa A. Hatton
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