“What If”

The Tale of Old Glory in the Sun

by Jordan Kach ‘26

There are some days in life that will stay with you forever and cling to your heart and mind, never letting go, reminding you every waking hour of life’s pain. Moments flash before your eyes of that day, serving as a constant reminder of the hardships of life and the cruelty of this world. It is hard to forget these days that make such an impact on life leaving you broken and in search of solace. But some things never come back and all you are left with is the sad memory of the day that life changed, left without the strength to move on, and a heartbreak so crushing that you don’t know where to go. It’s the loss, the grieving, the pain, the sorrow, of these days that hit you the hardest when the memories flood back into your eyes, drawing forth tears as the only warm comfort to abet the thoughts. It’s the days like this one that will forever form and alter a life, rendering the person a hollow shell of what was there before. 

It was the hottest morning Clarksville had seen in a while. The sun warmed the air below and painted the thin clouds that streaked the sky in various shades of pink and orange, reflecting the same hues onto the golden grasses below. The Oklahoma sky stretched on for miles above the flat land and it was as if the whole world was tinted in a cool tangerine. The locusts hummed a sweet morning tune in the thin trees and the frogs in the ditches sang the chorus. The wind softly brushed through the pines, adding a gentle whisper to the sound of Oklahoma in the morning. Periodically, a drowsy cow would yawn, or a rooster would crow, or a rusty windmill would creek, but other than these reverberations of the early hours, not a soul said a word. 

The farm was small, with a clean freshly painted white farmhouse on the hill built in 1890 in the traditional boxy fashion, spruced up with the addition of a wraparound porch and some new bushes. It, along with the rest of the Oklahoma landscape also accumulated an orange tint and as the sun rose in the sky it slowly colored the whole house. It had a barn with minimal livestock, all that could be afforded and cared for with the current budget, but with the plan of soon obtaining more. An old red truck was parked in the front drive, crippled by a flat tire that hadn’t been mended yet and marked the end of a long curving dirt road that led from I-81 to Locust Hill Farm. The dirt road was lined with a black horse fence that was in dire need of mending. No one had driven down that road in a long time. 

The auburn light blazed through the lace curtains and into her room. The rays of sun revealed the little flecks of dust dancing around, floating in the lavender linen spray-scented air. The crisp morning sunlight gleamed on the dresser, illuminating two beloved items displayed on the top: a golden cross of our Lord and Savior and a wedding photo that was taken two years prior on a humid summer day. That was the best day of her young life so far. 

Noticing the sunrise, she opened her heavy eyes and looked at the empty space in the bed beside her. She slowly stretched a hand out to the place where he once had lain and rubbed it softly, smiling lightly, thinking of the day when he would be back beside her. Her long brown hair gently fell across her face as she dreamed of reaching out for his hand and him gently pushing her hair away from her eyes and behind her ear like he once did. He had been gone for a year and a half now, and not a single day went by without her missing his presence in their house and her pining for him to hold her in his arms like on their wedding day. But she would have to wait. 

Slowly stretching, she sat up and gazed out the window to the countryside beyond the smudged windowpanes, watching the windmill turn slowly in the gentle gale. Also fluctuating with the wind was Old Glory, perched atop a rusty flagpole. The flag was faded and frayed but freedom was still flying. It had been her father’s flag and his father’s before, both patriots who never returned home from the battlefield or seas. Her thoughts turned to her father as she watched the flag ripple in the wind, and she remembered her last days with him before he went off to fight in the Great War. She could still feel that last hug crush her chest and the hot tears that stained both their cheeks from that last goodbye, but that was a long time ago. 

Now, it was her husband who was off to serve his country and her mind turned its attention quickly back to him as she watched the Star-Spangled Banner sway, the questions that filled her head every morning began to flow. 

“I wonder where he is now? I wonder who he’s fighting or what front he’s on? How soon will it be till he writes me again? Would he be coming home soon?” 

Then came the darker thoughts that frantically penetrated her mind, ones that she often tried to block out: “What if he’s injured? What if he’s been captured? What if he’s dead? What if he’s never coming home?” She stood there, eyes unblinkingly glazed with tears, arms crossed, hugging herself staring out the window at their farm, in a trance of sorrow that reoccurred each morning with the sunrise. 

These were thoughts that ran through every woman’s mind, whether it be wife, mother, sister, or friend in the summer of 1942. It was a hard time to be a woman and a hard time to love a man, for they were never there, and the only thing women had to keep them going was the memory of their man and a few letters scribbled with tear stains to hold close to them. But women were strong and had to pick up the labors of their loved ones and carry double the weight on their backs, leaving little time to grieve and much time to work. It was also a hard time to be a friend, for month after month, news would arrive of the men who would not be coming home alive and well but instead carried by their boys in a pine box with Old Glory laid above their brave hearts. It was then the duty of friends to comfort and console, as well as watch the sadness and loss of many women around them and mourn those whom they had known. Then, if not worse, watching the men who did survive stumble home, medals of honor pinned to their chest, but that piece of cloth and gold would never compensate for the damage that was done and the scars that would never fade. These men were hollow shells of what they were before, changed forever mentally if not physically crippled. Women had to be strong to support the men they loved. 

She wiped the tears from her eyes, pushing these thoughts from her mind, and dressed for the day. A pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a barn coat were hastily thrown on and she shuffled down the creaking, worn stairs to fix a hearty breakfast. Skillet thrown onto the gas stove, she cracked two fresh eggs, yolks the color of the sunrise, and accompanied them with two strips of bacon. She leaned on the counter in front of the clean, white porcelain tub sink and looked out the window, listening to the snapping and sizzling of the bacon. She always looked out the window while making breakfast, it’s what he had done. 

Soon she was smiling at the memory of him cooking her breakfast for the first time in their kitchen. It was the day after he had proposed, and the sunrise was the exact same as it was on this morning. He was not a chef by any extent of the imagination and while leaning on the sink staring back and forth between his new wife-to-be and the countryside beyond the window, he hadn’t realized he burnt the bacon.  That was a good morning she remembered, but then she quickly thought about how he left five months later. The day he left he also made her breakfast, but this was not a blissful morning. It was instead silent and somber. 

While pouring herself a cup of strong black coffee she whispered softly to herself, “What if that was the last time he would make me breakfast? What if I’ll never see him look out that window again?” She paused, eyebrows narrowing, but hearing the tortured cries of the bacon put that thought out of her mind. 

The day went on, just as they always did. Milk the cows, feed the chickens, collect the eggs, clean the stalls, wash the hogs, water the fields, harvest the vegetables and so the list would go on. She was a hard worker, determined and strong, with long lean limbs accustomed to the work on the farm. Her boots were old, but they were better that way, broken in just how she liked them. Her lined face was covered with beads of sweat and she dabbed them off with a damp bandanna. Her cheeks were a warm flush pink, the same as the color of the rose bushes that she planted beside the porch. She needed a break. 

Moving the last of the radishes and turnips to the front porch stoop, she took a seat on the bench swing he had made. Again, she could not stop the memories from slipping through the gates of her mind and she thought of the first time the two of them rocked back and forth on the swing he was so proud of. Hand in hand, arm around her shoulder, the two of them sat for hours laughing into the late evening, watching the sunset, silhouetting Old Glory who presided proudly over the farm. She couldn’t help but think “What if that was the last time we would sit on our swing? What if I’ll never sit here again with him? What if he’s never coming home?” 

She stayed there till the sun began to sink in the sky. 

Once inside, she untied her boots and was greeted by spirited Baxter, the black lab that he bought for her to be her “child” till he came back to her when the war was over. Baxter licked the sweat off her hands and face with his soft pink tongue, something that always made her smile. She began dinner, with Baxter sitting at her side, again looking out the window over the sink while washing the black earth off the beets. Her hands were rough and cracked, just the same as his. Working hands would always go together. 

Suddenly, something caught her eye out the window, for she was not accustomed to seeing much movement besides the birds flying in formation over the fields. A cloud of dust began to arise at the end of the dirt road, and it slowly moved closer. At first, she dismissed it and went back to washing her beets, but then noticed that a car was the creator of the dust. An olive-green Lincoln crawled down the road and her heart began to beat rapidly when she saw the white military star painted on its side. All feeling left her body, and her hands went cold.

As if in a trance she slowly went to the door and turned the handle, then pushed open the screen door with a slow screech. Her eyes fixed on the car still coming down the drive, and she noticed two men in the car, neither of which was her husband. 

She knew. 

Her soul screamed with rage and misery inside her, but her face remained blank and lifeless. As if in slow motion, she dropped to her knees with a hard thud, not noticing the pain, and put her worn hands to her face to hide her fear. Just a heap, slumped on the front porch. 

The men got out of the car, one an army chaplain and the other an officer. Their boots sounded like deep echoes in the distance as they walked up the porch steps. They put their hands gently onto her heaving shoulders as she sobbed uncontrollably. They handed her an envelope and left without a word. 

He would never be coming home. 

The orange sun sank into the fields of gold, turning all of the Oklahoma landscape a cool tangerine. A car rolled down a dirt road kicking up a cloud of dust and a broken woman knelt clinging to a letter underneath Old Glory.