101 Steps
It snowed today, on the anniversary of his death. I climbed the 101 steps up the hill, to the Cemetery of the Nameless Soldier. 101 steps. They say that each step taken brings the fallen closer to God. Like a prayer. With each step I took, I said a prayer under my breath. A prayer for him.
He looked up at the narrow stairs leading up to the cemetery. He walked up the steps, counting as he did so, with some difficulty; he was after all already seventy.
I reached the top at last. There was only a simple plaque in the middle, with numerous bouquets of flowers placed atop, all laced with the powdery snow. I clutched the bouquet in my hand tightly as I approached it.
He was staring at the same plaque now, although time had since taken its toll on it. Looking at the faded words inscribed on it, he choked with tears.
Here lies the nameless Soldier,
A Father, A Brother, A Son,
Fallen in Defence of the Fatherland,
His Loyalty and Courage,
We will always Honour,
Till the end of Time.
I placed the bouquet on the plaque, on the snow. Every bouquet placed is a fight against the snow, against oblivion. So that the snow would never cover the plaque. So that we would always remember. So that we would never forget. I wiped the snow off the words, tracing them with my bare fingers. The Nameless Soldier. Yet his name, I would always remember.
I could only watch him cry. Nothing I do could take away fifty years of pain. Fifty years of thinking she was dead.
I left as silently as I had come. Leaving only my footsteps in the snow, and that bouquet. Leaving with the knowledge that he is now closer to Heaven.
When I was young, my grandmother used to tell me about the man she loved, whom she loved more than my grandfather. A young man who died in the war, like most of the other men from the village, like most of the people from the village. The men died on the frontlines, the women and children in the bomb raids. She died about two years ago, leaving me with an old diary and a request that on 10 January each year, I am to climb the 101 steps up to the Cemetery of the Nameless Soldier to place a bouquet of flowers on the stone plaque. Yesterday, on the 9th, while I was chilling out with my friends, I caught an old man staring at me. He was old enough to be my grandfather. Then, he came up to me and asked me if I know a Caitlin Tennenkaum. I took a while to remember, because while I knew a Caitlin, I never knew her as Caitlin Tennenkaum.
This diary belongs to Caitlin Tennenkaum.
He looked up at the narrow stairs leading up to the cemetery. He walked up the steps, counting as he did so, with some difficulty; he was after all already seventy.
I reached the top at last. There was only a simple plaque in the middle, with numerous bouquets of flowers placed atop, all laced with the powdery snow. I clutched the bouquet in my hand tightly as I approached it.
He was staring at the same plaque now, although time had since taken its toll on it. Looking at the faded words inscribed on it, he choked with tears.
Here lies the nameless Soldier,
A Father, A Brother, A Son,
Fallen in Defence of the Fatherland,
His Loyalty and Courage,
We will always Honour,
Till the end of Time.
I placed the bouquet on the plaque, on the snow. Every bouquet placed is a fight against the snow, against oblivion. So that the snow would never cover the plaque. So that we would always remember. So that we would never forget. I wiped the snow off the words, tracing them with my bare fingers. The Nameless Soldier. Yet his name, I would always remember.
I could only watch him cry. Nothing I do could take away fifty years of pain. Fifty years of thinking she was dead.
I left as silently as I had come. Leaving only my footsteps in the snow, and that bouquet. Leaving with the knowledge that he is now closer to Heaven.
When I was young, my grandmother used to tell me about the man she loved, whom she loved more than my grandfather. A young man who died in the war, like most of the other men from the village, like most of the people from the village. The men died on the frontlines, the women and children in the bomb raids. She died about two years ago, leaving me with an old diary and a request that on 10 January each year, I am to climb the 101 steps up to the Cemetery of the Nameless Soldier to place a bouquet of flowers on the stone plaque. Yesterday, on the 9th, while I was chilling out with my friends, I caught an old man staring at me. He was old enough to be my grandfather. Then, he came up to me and asked me if I know a Caitlin Tennenkaum. I took a while to remember, because while I knew a Caitlin, I never knew her as Caitlin Tennenkaum.
This diary belongs to Caitlin Tennenkaum.
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