Hiding in Plain Sight

This week’s new flash fiction is a Memorial Day tribute.

Hiding in Plain Sight

Downtown was quiet. Despite the crowd. Some whispered chatter, of course. Babies crying, no avoiding that. A few leashed dogs barking. But otherwise, silence.

A celebration. Every year this time. No work today. No mail.

It started early, first thing in the morning. Main Street blocked off for the day. Closed. No cars. No commerce. For two full miles.

The people lined the sidewalks on each side of the empty street. Stood in rows. Some sat in portable chairs. Or on the curb. Some came and went throughout the long day. A hardy few stayed for the duration. All day.

Some years blazing hot. Other years rain.

Nobody crossed the street. Dare not intrude. Interfere with the flow.

No vendors or food trucks. Some nibbled on discreet home-packed snacks. Most went without.

Occasional spontaneous bursts of applause. Singing. Hymns. Anthems.

Some prayers. Some tears.

For some, the day more personal. Hitting closer to home. For others, luckier ones, merely theoretical. Symbolic.

Mostly the huge crowd passed the time with quiet thoughts. Gratitude. Thanks. Contemplating their prosperity. Leisure. Safety. The freedom that allowed such an exercise.

Waving flags.

A long day. Honoring those who have seen longer.

At sundown, the crowd dispersed.

The thoroughfare reopened. A return to business as usual. Memories short.

The annual remembrance, concluded for the year.

A parade.

Without bands. Or floats. No politicians, God forbid. No Cub Scouts. Nor local realtors in festooned convertibles. No beauty queens.

A parade without marchers. None visible, that is.

Adjourned 12 hours after it started.

A rough approximation of how long it would take to pass a fixed point with an advancing column, 12 abreast, tightly packed, at brisk marching speed without rest, comprising America’s war dead.

In the aggregate.

Accumulated over the years.

From Bunker Hill to Iranian drones.

1.3 million souls.

So far.