The Dash of Life

My name, Hannibal Jones, is just about the only thing I have that my father gave me. That doesn’t stop me from missing him. My father died for his country, but he’s buried in his home town in Georgia so I don’t see him very often. Instead, I visit his name on a big black wall on Veteran’s Day, and then I cross the Memorial Bridge with my pal Sarge to visit a couple of his old friends in Arlington Cemetery. This year, we brought Monte with us. I try to show the boy what being a man is all about, and remembering those you’ve lost is a part of that.

It was sunny and warm this year, almost 70 degrees, with a slight breeze raising the sweet smell of fresh cut grass and waving the rows of flags. Every year soldiers volunteer to go out the night before and plant those flags on every grave. We stopped in front of a name I didn’t recognize and stood quietly, just staring at the modest stone. Sarge had told me the guy was in his unit back in the Nam but he didn’t say anything more. After a couple minutes of silence Monte started to fidget. Young teenagers aren’t known for their patience but Monte kept his voice respectful and his question real.

“Hey, Sarge, what you thinking about?”

Sarge smiled. “Just thinking about Kenny, and the dash of life.”

“What’s the dash?” Monte asked.

“There’s going to be a last day,” Sarge said. “When it gets here I’ll look back on my career in the Marine Corps and my years as a bouncer and my time helping Hannibal here and ask the hard questions. “What did I do to make a difference? Did I take on the servant attitude of giving something back?"

“I know you did,” I said, resting a hand on Sarge’s shoulder. “But what’s that got to do with a dash?”

Sarge stayed enigmatic. “This country’s first great military man was probably George Washington. If we were looking at his grave right now, we’d see when he was born. Know when his birthday is?”

“February twenty-something,” Monte offered. That got a smile from Sarge.

“See. Not many people can tell you what day he was born on, since it's not a holiday anymore. And fewer still can tell you when he died. When you look at a tombstone, you see "born" on a certain date, and "died" on another. And in between is a dash. That’s all that represents everything that goes between those dates. But it's what's in that ‘dash of life’ that people remember.”

We all went silent again, and Sarge’s words really got me thinking. I know Dad’s dates of birth and death by heart, of course, but I resolved to think more about all he did in his life, how he filled the dash. And if you find yourself staring at a gravestone on Veteran’s Day this year, look hard at what’s between the dates and remember how your soldier, sailor, airman or Marine filled his dash of life.