249 Continued: Melodee Stromotich SENIOR ESSAY, SECOND PLACE Him and my father had reminisced about the blowing wheat 昀elds they could run through for hours, and the rolling hills they’d sled down once winter set in. They were each other’s little piece of home, reminding them it’s still there for them to return to. The man next to my father has dimples shining through the fading photograph. He had a sweet tooth bigger than Alberta, my father chuckles. He’d savour his chocolate bars for as long as he could, trading cigarettes for another. Though he was kindhearted, and willing to break his bar with someone else if they needed a pick-me-up. My father’s voice carries the memories to my ears gently. Showing me these delicate treasures he’s cared for so many years, so I may cradle them and hold them safe. Preserving them for the day I can pass it down to my own children to protect. “What happened to them?” I ask, hesitant and suspecting. He sighs, his voice rough from emotion and years of smoke, “They died.” “I'm sorry.” I say, which feels inadequate. How does one properly convey how awful it is, to lose another soul you cared for? A friend? A brother? Family? “I put them up by the door so they can see everyone they fought for get to come home.” He claps my shoulder, his grief bleeding through, his weight settling on my frame. I can’t tell if he's leaning on me to convey his pain, or for support as his old bones tug him earthward. His jaw quivers. It’s jarring, as I've never seen my stoic father so near tears. “They fought for peace. So I could have you, and you and your kids could live in peace, and get to grow up and grow old. The least I could do was bring them back to my home.” I’ve seen this photograph every day of my childhood, passing the hall on my way into a beautiful world that these men will never see. A world I get to live in because of their sacri昀ces. I never look at the picture the same again. Lest we forget.
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