Each year my father raised an old flag, its threads frayed with time. I’d wondered why he did this. Mostly, he proudly flew a flag unweathered by time, replaced with a new when needed.
I remember so well when I was ten, “Daddy, why do raise that flag each year? The new ones look prettier.”
He sat me down and explained he now thought me old enough to understand. He spoke of comradeship, sacrifice and loss and the part the old flag played.
My father long passed, each year I raise a special flag and remember those who came before.
This is the graphic from the Saturday Centus writing challenge.