I always looked up to Frank, not just because he was taller than I was, but also because he was my big brother. We were born in an era where our parents taught us to look out for each other; big brothers were to be treated with the same respect as our parents, and they were taught to take care of their little sisters. Frank decided to attend a local college. He enjoyed college as much as he did high school. I always said if he had a choice, he'd be a permanent student. He was that kind of person. Frank was about to graduate from college and my husband, and I were living sixty miles away. Being newly pregnant at that time, it was too far a drive for us to attend. While Frank understood, I was truly upset. I was more upset two days after his graduation when we spoke on the phone. “Hey, Sis! You'll never guess what I got in the mail today.” “An invitation for grad school?” “How I wish! But no. What I received was a draft notice!” “What? Frankie, you only graduated two days ago. What'd they do, mail it a week beforehand?” “Don't know when they mailed it but I'm not going down as a draftee. I'm going to the draft board office tomorrow and ask them if they can change this to enlisted”. I knew many young men from our area in Brooklyn that, like my brother, came home “damaged.” Often, they'd sit and stare as if in a world of their own. Nightmares became their normal sleeping habits. They'd all lost significant weight. Some did drugs, others drank too much. Some never made it home at all. At least, I still had my hero, my brother. He'd grown a mustache. I asked why since he was always so clean shaven. His answer was, “Let's just say, I've changed.” One afternoon while visiting my mom, she asked him to fix the kitchen ceiling light. When Frank raised his arms, his shirt lifted, and I saw three round scars. He never had them when he was a kid. I asked him what happened. He replied, “Don't worry about it. It's over.” Time went by and though I didn't see my brother every week, I did see him occasionally and when I did, I noticed a slight limp. I asked him about it, and he told me it was nothing to worry about – just getting older, he'd say. Just getting older? He was only forty-eight years old. I knew not to push for answers he didn't want to give. I let it go but told him if he ever needed to talk, I was there to listen. Then it happened. A few months later, he was diagnosed with liver cancer. However, he made his doctor promise to keep his medical condition private. Frank wanted no sympathy. He'd fight this disease alone. He was determined not to have his family feel sorry for him. He'd rather die with dignity than pity. He joined the American Legion Post in Queens where he'd moved with a friend. My mom, now lived across the street. Two years later, on Memorial Day, in 1995, his Post in Maspeth was to be a part of the town's Memorial Day Parade. I don't know why, but Frank was chosen to carry the Post's American Flag – an honor given to only a select few. It made his day! He was so proud to wear his uniform and carry the Flag of the country he so loved. Little did we know, that would be the last time he'd ever carry the Flag he so cherished. Little did we know that Frank would wear his uniform only once more. September of 1995, when Frank was just fifty years old, he began coughing severely. Every time he coughed, or maybe I should say “hacked,” his mouth filled with blood. He grew weak and his roommate called 9-1-1 and our mom who called me immediately. We stood their numb. Mom's eyes filled with tears and while she began to shake and hyperventilate, she found no words. I looked at my brother's almost lifeless body and whispered. “How long does he have?” The doctor replied, “Probably only a few weeks – if he's lucky. This is the way he wanted to go. He wanted no one to know, no one to suffer with him.” I leaned over and gave him a hug and kiss, then whispered in his ear, “Whenever you're ready, Frank, just let go. I hate this. I don't want to lose you, but you've already been through too much. Please don't suffer anymore.” Two hours later, he was gone. It's so hard for me to write this while I remember the boy I adored, the man who was my hero, and the brother that cancer had the audacity to take away from us. We honored the wish he'd written and buried him in the uniform he so proudly wore. The photo I've chosen for this story is the last Memorial Day where he was honored by his American Legion Post to carry the Flag of our great nation. This is the photo taken before he died just a few months later. This was Frank's Last Parade.

“I can't believe we're expected to stay home.” I understood her frustration. After all, extroverts like Alice rarely enjoy a moment of silent contemplation. On the other hand, I had just left the confines of the military. As soon as I picked up my discharge paperwork and left base, I felt like I saw sunlight for the first time. The air smelled free and my shackles fell to the ground. A month later, the entire base shut down as a result of the Virus. Somehow not one sane person realised that packing two Marines into rooms that were 10 feet by 6 feet and shared the same air conditions with at least 200 other Marines was a bad idea. I clutched my discharge paperwork. It was real. I was free. Being forced to stay home did not seem like a punishment. I was on my fourth week in my parents' apartment and I was enjoying the type of extended vacation only Europeans could have. I continued my walk around the affluent neighbourhood. I lived in an apartment that was a 15 minute walk away. It was a nice, red brick, three story building surrounded by palm trees and a large pool. As nice as that complex was, this neighbourhood was another world. As you walked down the path, you stared at homes that towered and stretched in their splendour. An Art Deco house was next to a Swiss chalet as if the houses were competing for the front page of a Homes magazine. Many joggers waved to me as if I lived there so I waved back, pretending I had made it in the world. My schedule for the past four weeks was quite amazing though: 1200 WAKE UP AND WASH UP 1230 BREAKFAST 1300 READ 1400 GO ON A LONG WALK AROUND THE NEIGHBOURHOOD// CALL FRIENDS 1600 LONG BATH 1730 MOTHER GETS OFF WORK// DINNER 1800 FATHER GETS HOME// TEA TIME 1900 WATCH MOVIES//READ//SOCIAL MEDIA 0100 SLEEP I sat down on a bench and stared at the wonderful trees and the grand houses around me. My future was bulletproof. “Just you wait until this Virus leaves!” Mr James told me as he stared at the last worker leaving the building. “You'll be so busy you won't know what to do with yourself!” He laughed theatrically as he slapped his thigh. “Alright, I'm going to do my rounds. I'll see you later!” I watched him walk away before I stood up and stretched. I did a quick scan of the lobby. The once bustling Starbucks was closed and silent. The other security guard, who watched the side of the building open to the public, had already gone home. I was one of the round-the-clock security guards who watched the entrance that needed key cards. No key card? You need to sign in with me and I need to verify who you are before I can let you in. I'm sure when everything goes back to normal, I would probably never get a chance to sit and quietly read my book as I do now. I sat back down and looked at the cameras: Both freight elevators – EMPTY Both regular elevator lobbies – EMPTY All four cameras pointing to various angles of the front door – EMPTY The 7th, 9th, 11th and 14th floors – EMPTY There are 32 different cameras and there was no movement except a stray car passing in front. The mechanics and the cleaning people were the ones I had gotten to know. Everyone wore the same uniform except for the facemask. I decided that if it was my one piece of flair, then it would be fabulous. I bought them off Etsy and I loved showing them off: A “Fun Ghoul” Killjoy mask to showcase my inner emo Red, white and blue stripes for the patriotic month of July White lighting streaks resembling marble, on a black background for some mystery Black with rose-gold polka dots to show case my playful side and my serious side A skeleton with a rose on a parchment background for the gym to deter socialisation I sat back down and opened my book. It has been a few weeks since I started this job and over two months since leaving the military. I could not imagine having to wake up at 5 am to go for a run before going to work. I don't know how I lived that life for four years. I sat calmly reading my book and sipping my coffee, slightly shifting the facemask to do so. But I had begun to feel torn. I enjoyed my reading time and my laser focus at the gym. I also enjoyed spending more time with my parents than I had in years. However, I also missed going out to bars and talking to strangers. I missed going shopping or to the movies – among people it not necessarily going with anyone. Most of all, I miss my own peace and my privacy. Until I save enough money, I cannot move out on my own. “Thank you for your service!” Civilians say that thinking they've helped somehow. It's been four months and the Veterans Affairs office is no closer in helping me get my disability check for my injuries sustained in service. No check, no moving out. I try not to think of all of these things because they spiral me into depression. Instead, I quietly read my book and escape into different worlds.

I watched him limp as he walked my way. There was sadness in his eyes. His clothes were ragged and wrinkled And time seemed to have passed him by. He seemed like he didn't belong here And yet he had been a part Of a time when the turmoil around us Tugged violently at all our hearts. I tried to offer some comfort But he gave me half-hearted grin. He said, “No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to fit in.” He looked much older than his 50 years. I thought back to a time long ago When he was a handsome young soldier. Oh God! Why didn't we know?. If we had known of the outcome Would things be different today? Would we have turned our backs on the world Or still sent our young men away? The mental scars were more painful When the soldiers came home from war. Our country considered them outcasts And cast them aside all the more. The man said I shouldn't be worried And hoped he wouldn't offend But if he had it to do all over, He'd do it all over again. He'd be willing, again, to shoulder a gun And put his fears and his hurt aside. After all, he was defending his country. His eyes glowed with a young soldier's pride. It seems like it was just yesterday When I spoke with this man so brave. Now with tears mixed with pride and yet sadness, I kneel praying at my brother's grave.