Martyr

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I stood reverently, trying to ignore my shaky legs, and fully aware that I was impersonating the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The bitter wind, nipping at my body, was my only acquaintance, yet strangely the graveyard did not feel empty. I didn’t know if it was the tight suit or just the old mind reflecting, but it made me recall a memory, a memory that had been deeply buried within the folds of time.

There had been an odd feeling inside me that avoided my grasp like a silky and elusive eel, disallowing me to comprehend it. The man that resided in that little pocket watch (which was dangling on my pinky) was the man my mom always talked about. It was the man she loved telling me about, comparing me to him, saying I have his same green eyes that sparkle under the twilight moon, the puffy hair that dances from the littlest of the breezes, and how even my habit of fidgeting around came from him.

I did not recognize that man as my father. Now don’t get me wrong; I knew everyone had a father. My ole pup, James down the street, even my mother, they all had fathers. But, I could not call that man, approaching in the train, (according to the papers), my father. For a father was someone I was supposed to have a close relationship with, the war stole that from us.

I remembered the train, that rumbling machination that groaned every second with its defiantly roaring engines. Though it had been years, I could have sworn my butt still ached from its uncomfortable seats, and the cacophony of the babbling commuters still echoed in my head. I could also recall my amazement as the trees would blur past instantaneously and the clouds that had governed us for so long chased after our tails like famished dogs. I pictured what my father would be doing on that train, grasped the watch a little bit harder and acted out those actions. First, I skipped around, for I was positive he was restless with excitement and would be dancing in the train. Then I took upon the persona of the trainmaster, with the stern gaze and shaking my foreboding finger in vexation. And then I took the persona of my father, turning a deaf ear and dancing away ( I achieved this by hopping along the rocks, careful not to step on the grass) for he would certainly be drunk in absolute elation and merriment, unable to contain his exploding multitudinous mirth.

The next part I remembered the most well. My father was not due for another day, but the bell nonetheless rang. Befuddled, I ran up to the door and flung it open, my heart pounding in elation, but the elation dimmed after realizing it was the mail carrier. Yet the throbbing of the heart recommenced, after seeing the bloodstained letters. At the moment I perceived why the letters were bloodstained, the candle inside me was snuffed out completely. My eyes became teary. My mother, breathless and uncaring of the expensive flowers hanging by her side, appeared beside me and read the letter. I was too young to understand half of those words, nonetheless, I could understand the other half. The other half where my father talked about loving me, caring about me, and walking through the terrors of diseases, infections, death, and the soul-splitting action of killing others...

I made sure to bring a fresh poppy, which even felt lively and vibrant. With words of reverence and respect, I gently placed the poppy on the tombstone. He had fought the terrors for peace, country, and me. He was a person I was proud to call my father. Not any person but a martyr for peace.

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Published November 17, 2020

Written by David Oh ~ Graphics created by Elwin Fu