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I was wearing my Army Dress Blues, the fabric heavy on my shoulders, the medals cool and unyielding against my chest. My shoes, polished until they reflected the world, were now streaked with dark earth. I noticed that detail and dismissed it. Appearances mattered less today.
I was the only one in uniform.
That fact alone should have told everyone something.
Around me, umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers. Faces blurred together. Some people dabbed at their eyes. Others checked their phones when they thought no one was looking. A few whispered about the weather, about traffic, about how long the service might last.
They were present, but they were not here.
My father had served his country quietly. He never sought praise. He never wore his sacrifices like decoration. He taught me that strength wasn’t loud. It was consistent. It showed up when needed and didn’t ask to be thanked.
