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“Few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total; of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.” ~Robert Kennedy The images repeated for months. No matter what task I was involved in, my thoughts returned to my mother, seated in the chapel’s front row, as the American flag—that beloved symbol of freedom that my father honored and fought for--was folded with precision skill in the symbolic tricornered shape and then offered to her with the utmost respect and duty. I could still hear the piercing notes of TAPS beforehand, every chord achingly impactful right before my mother’s worn hands, hands that had stroked my fevered brow as a child, hands that were clasped together in daily prayer, and hands that trembled not, I was certain, from advanced age, but instead from the love and loss she now accepted in the form of Old Glory. “So sorry for your loss,” many attendees had told me afterward. “You were lucky to have your dad as long as you did.” As long as you did…. What strange though well-intentioned words. After all, it seemed at every turn in my father’s care, I had encouraged others to view him as more than a shelf life ready to expire. “Miss? Your order?” the barista asked me. Embarrassed, I drew back to the present. How long would I relive the past? Could a person not only overcome loss but disillusionment in humankind? Ever since my father’s funeral, the professionalism I’d used to push through previous writer’s block had vanished. Gone too was my inkwell of inspiration. Something, some unnamed ailment had rooted itself deep within me, entwining itself with my grief. “Miss?” “Just an iced Americano, please,” I answered. An elderly couple entered the café with silver hair gleaming, polished shoes, and starched, immaculate clothing. A refreshing scent of soap permeated the air. “It was a good service,” the woman was saying. “I like the new pastor.” They giggled as if on a first date. Perhaps it was the love that shone from their eyes or the way they conducted themselves with such dignity compared to the young girl who stood behind them in slippers and pajamas, eyes downcast on her phone, that captured my attention. “Hurry up, grandpa. I need my caffeine,” the pajama-clad girl grumbled to the elderly man when he stammered to convey his and his wife’s order. After receiving my Americano, I walked towards the couple as he struggled to see the credit card machine prompts. “Excuse me,” I said. “Your order is on me for being the best dressed people in this place.” I swiped my credit card before they could protest, enjoying their warm gratitude even when I threw a hard glance at the pajama-dressed girl behind them. Once settled in my car, I rubbed my temples. Why did there seem to be such disdain for the elderly—a generation so deserving of respect? Silence answered. A few hours later, despondent, I visited my mom. “Honey, did you notice the new potted plant on the front porch?” she asked. I hadn’t. How could I when nothing but a wall of sadness blocked my view? “That’s offspring from Old Glory. You remember it, don’t you? It’s the plant upstairs your father grew from seeds that his dad had given him. Well, Old Glory was dying, but months ago, your dad told me to look for viable seeds from it. I gathered what I could but spilled them, only able to recover one tiny seed from the carpet. It didn’t look promising, but your dad told me to plant it anyway. I’m so glad I did! That flourishing plant outside sprouted and is reproducing from one little ol’ seed!” Nodding, I tried to smile. “Hmm,” my mom said, her enthusiasm fading. She reached for my hand. “Karina, I know you’re grieving like us all, but something else is hurting you too.” She placed her arms around me. “You realize that you did everything you could for your father, right? His passing was God’s will.” Swallowing hard, I shook my head. “No, Mom,” I told her, wanting her to understand. “Most of what I did was debate his worth to the many changing faces around him. I’m sure the staff didn’t intentionally mean to be so dismissive toward him. That’s the problem, though. It was as if he was instantly judged by his age and not that he was a person worthy of quality attention. I would tell so many of his life, his history, the war he fought in and how he clutched dying friends till their last breath on that battle-worn ship. And just like you, Mom, he carried on through adversities with strength and fortitude. He was so much more than just a name posted above a hospital bed. The only thing I came away with from these past months is how dismal the future looks when your generation is gone. Even with the many current honorable servicemen and women, I can’t see there ever being another generation like the one we’re losing.” Her brows drew together. After several long moments, she asked, “So you’re grieving the loss of your father but also that my generation is dying?” Suddenly, the missing puzzle piece snapped into place, revealing the identity of the foreboding feeling shadowing my grief: a sense of hopelessness. I was hopeless that there would never be a generation like my parents again. Hopeless that society had changed every worthwhile task to a click of a screen, hopeless that the men and women of valor would only be mentioned in textbooks but never with one’s heart, or worse, mocked like the girl had done at the café. “Yes, Mom. I guess I am. Your generation acts on noble principles that reflects a time when those principles were still being taught in the home and society. Even the integrity in which you carry yourself speaks of a time not here any longer. I exhausted myself in trying to make others see my dad as more than an old man. So how can you or I have hope that the true substance of a person’s worth will be carried on in a society preoccupied with self but not selfless?” Her soft brown eyes widened. “Oh, I see. Well, there’s no doubt you moved mountains for better care for your dad. But you sound cynical now. You can still have faith like I do in the next generations. The reasons are rather simple. So, I tell you what, go upstairs to your dad’s favorite room. Sit there a minute. Talk to God. You may just find the answers you’re seeking.” Not convinced, I still did as she suggested. My mom had a proven intuition about her. Opening the door to the light blue room, tranquil hues instantly comforted me. Old Glory, the potted coleus plant, still stood by the window, dead but present. On the chair beside it was the triangular folded flag from my father’s funeral. I sat down, smoothing my hand over the flag’s gilded edges. “Old Glory,” I whispered, glancing from the flag back to the dead plant. Why had my dad named an unremarkable houseplant the same? On the snack table beside the chair lay my father’s tidy collection of newspaper clippings. Lifting the first clipping, I read from Kennedy’s 1966 Ripple of Hope speech: “Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation. The history of this generation… I read that part several times, then looked back at the dead plant. Something gnawed at me. Lord, are the answers I seek within reach? That plant sprouted and is reproducing from one little ol’ seed…my mom had told me. “So,” I asked myself, “what happens if a person plants a seed on fertile ground?” It sprouts, my mind answered back, and can multiply. Standing, I placed the flag and newspaper clipping down, moving towards the room’s window to gaze below at the porch. There, Old Glory’s new generation of outgrowth moved with the breeze, just like how the American flag waved above it. One in the same, I thought. But could my cure to my hopelessness really be this simple? “So that’s why you named it Old Glory,” I whispered as if my father stood before me. “Because if any person contributes even one little change, one seed, to the betterment of others, that hope springs eternally just like our American flag’s heritage to the next generation.” After what seemed an eternity, I straightened myself up, stirred by my new outlook. Yes, a valiant generation may be fading away, but their strength, dignity, and grit lives in every child, grandchild, retold story and so on. It’s more than just textbooks, I reasoned, it’s matters of the heart, and with that fertile ground any seed can grow, just like with my dad’s plant that had been handed down to him, and just like the new one would be handed to another. I ran down the stairs to kiss my mom’s cheek. “You were right again! The answers were waiting for me, and now I must get back to my desk to write it all down.” She laughed, uttering a prayer of thanksgiving. I rushed to my car, stopping only once to tenderly graze the new Old Glory plant with my fingertips. “You keep sprouting, girl.” A week later and on a roll after my writer’s block breakthrough, I headed to a local café for more author’s fuel--caffeine. An elderly man sporting a World War II ballcap slowly walked in. Two teenagers behind him huffed and moved around him to cut into line. I stepped forward but stopped when a third teenager, a cashier behind the counter, spoke first. “He’s next,” he told the first two teenagers. “He’s not next,” they laughed, silently mouthing the words, “He’s old.” The young cashier wasn’t fazed. He called the WWII veteran to the very front of the line, thanked him for his service, told him his order was complimentary, and then shared a story about his great grandfather. His respectful gesture boosted excitement all around, opening dialogue and igniting a spirit of gratitude. I didn’t know who was beaming brighter—the WWII veteran or myself. Leaving the café, I remembered when only a short time ago, I’d left a café in tears. Today, though, my tears were joyful. How could they not be? I’d just witnessed what happens when the right seeds are planted…just like with my dad’s Old Glory plant, and just like with the heritage of our American flag. Both produce beautiful things. One generation to the next… ~Karina Garrison
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