I have always loved Memorial Day. When I was a child, my mom, brother, and I would walk to the end of our street to watch the Memorial Day parade, which used to end with a ceremony at Warwick Veterans Memorial High School. Every year, my mom would buy a helium balloon for my brother and carefully tie it to his wrist so he wouldn’t lose it. He’d joyfully wave it in the air, flapping his arm up and down, all day and well into the night. She tied it securely. So securely, in fact, that the next morning he woke up with a red, swollen hand, almost as big as the balloon itself! She had tied it so tightly that it cut off his circulation! Thankfully, once the string was removed, the color returned, the swelling went down, and his hand was back to normal. My mom never tied a balloon that tightly again.

To my initial delight, I got to march in the parade when I was a girl scout. I loved wearing the uniform, decked out green skirts, crisp white shirts, and green sashes with enough badges to make a Navy admiral jealous. We were ready. We were proud. And we were not synchronized. Instead of marching, they were just walking normally, which caused us to follow suit. No “hup two, three, four” but a casual stroll. My mom, who was the girl scout leader, had no experience in leading us for a march. (Sell girl scout cookies…she was great. Make s’mores…she was great… Lead us in the recitation of our motto…she was great. Marching, not so much!)

There was one big problem: there were only two marching bands, one from Veterans High and one from Pilgrim, and we were placed somewhere in the musical no-man’s-land between them. So instead of keeping in time with a rousing drumbeat, we just kind of... strolled. Aimlessly.

About halfway through, my legs decided they had had enough exercise. Forget marching, I was dragging my feet like a zombie, scuffing up my brand-new white sneakers with every sad shuffle. My knee socks had sullenly rolled down to my ankles. I was a sweaty, disheveled mess. My sash, the pride of my entire Girl Scout identity, had twisted around so the American flag was unpatriotically upside down. To make things worse, I really had to pee.

And then, then, the grand finale of my personal parade experience, I stepped on horse poop, a reminder that the Warwick Police had been leading the way riding on horses earlier. And not just riding, but also letting nature take its course.

I finished the parade scuffing, sweating, sash-askew, and reeking of horse poop. But wait, that was not the end. At the finish, sitting on the grass of the high school, drinking a bottle of water which had been thankfully dispensed by parade organizers, I listened as the speakers took to the podium and microphone where they delivered heartfelt, respectful remarks that honor the true meaning of the holiday, something like this:

“Good morning and thank you for joining us on this solemn and meaningful day. Today, we come together not for celebration, but for remembrance. Memorial Day is a time to honor the men and women of our Armed Forces who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. They laid down their lives not for fame, not for recognition, but out of a profound sense of duty, courage, and love of country. We remember them not just as soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines, but as sons and daughters, husbands and wives, parents and friends. Their stories are the foundation of our freedom.

As we enjoy the freedoms of this day, the sunshine, the parades, the laughter of children, and the cookouts, let us also pause to reflect on the cost of those freedoms. Let us carry forward the values they died defending: liberty, justice, unity, and peace. May our gratitude live not only in our hearts, but in our actions, and commit ourselves to building a nation worthy of their sacrifice. We remember. We honor. We are grateful.”

I could not have said it better myself.