by M. Morrison

Created on: November 12, 2009

He watched her from a distance. In the past forty years, she hadn't missed a day. Today, however, was more special than most - it was their anniversary, November 29th. As he leaned against the tree, his eyes followed her footprints through the new-fallen snow. He watched her as she laid the flowers on the ground and wiped the snow from the headstone. Her devotion to her husband, even after his death, was both admirable and beautiful. It broke his heart.

He had first discovered her routine four years ago, when he'd happened to visit the graveyard and she was there, standing over that same grave. This intrigued him, and so he began to go there more often. Always she would be there, first thing in the morning, rain or shine - she would let nothing stop her from her daily visits. Every day, she would lay a single flower next to the headstone. On five special days a year, she would leave a bouquet for him: their wedding anniversary, the anniversary of his death, his birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. She used to sit next to his grave and talk to him, but as she got older, she could only stand and tell him of her day.

He could only imagine the love she had felt for her husband, and it sometimes made him question his own life. He loved his family, but if something happened to his wife, would he have the strength to visit her grave? Would he have the strength to keep on raising their children, or would he simply fall apart? He admired this woman. She clearly loved her husband very much, and yet she was strong enough to pull through without him.

The snow fell softly, and as a slight breeze blew, she drew her shawl tighter around her. As always, he was drawn to her, and for the first time he walked over to her. She wasn't surprised at all when his leather coat fell over her shoulders and he put an arm around her. She'd known all along that he was watching her. A mother always knows.

Neither of the two said a word - it wasn't necessary. He understood the devotion she had for her husband. His father had fought bravely to protect his family, his home, his country, and they had won. He had barely known his father, and his memories were vague, but he'd heard the stories. His mother loved to boast about her husband going off to war to protect what was dear to him and she'd often reminisced about how they'd met, how he'd proposed, and how delighted they were to start a family. She'd saved every letter, and he had read them all. His father had written of the hardships of war, of the constant fear that lingered over him, and how he loved and missed both her and their young son. Most of all, he wrote about how proud he was that he could be there, making a difference for the next generation.

As they stood side-by-side in silence, he realized just how strong his mother was. For years, she'd taken on the burden of raising a child all by herself in a time that was not-so-kind to women. She'd fed him and clothed him and put him through school, all by herself. She'd lost the man she'd planned to spend the rest of her life with, and she'd pushed aside her sorrow for the sake of her child. It was no wonder they loved each other so much - they shared the same devotion to their cause, the same dogged determination to get through the hard times. They were both willing to set aside their own fears, sorrows, and desires for the sake of others. And they both shared the same pride. Though his father never did live to know the end result, he knew that he would be proud. Proud of himself, proud of his comrades, proud of his loved ones, and proud of his country for standing up for what they believed in.

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