One September Morning by Rosalind Noonan Page A

grin, saying something inane like, “Brightens and whitens!”
    The black-and-white wedding photos have always reminded Abby of a classic film, one in which the soldiers return from the front in World War II to their joyous wives clad in sophisticated gowns. In one photo, John, in dress uniform, escorts Abby beneath an archway of crossed silver swords. John was so tall he had to duck, and a glint of light off the sword over his head makes it look as if he has a halo. The other photo is a close-up of Abby and John dancing, their eyes fixed on each other, each utterly mesmerized by the other.
    She never imagined herself as a soldier’s wife; the sword-crossing ceremony at their wedding made her feel like a princess, the bride of a knight. “I don’t see myself as an army wife,” she used to tell John, who would roll his eyes and remind her that labels are so limiting and often inaccurate. Abby didn’t want to be married to the military, but by the time John had come to the decision to enlist, she had already fallen for him, and the attraction, like John himself, was so huge and overwhelming and brilliant that she could not imagining spending her life with anyone but him. And now she is a military widow, a tag that seems just as ill-fitting and all the more unavoidable.
    “Slowing down on the job?” Sharice zips the garment bag closed and steps closer to view the photos. “I don’t know if Jim has ever told you, but he’s never been so proud as the day John and Noah enlisted. When John signed on to play for the Seahawks, we’d thought it was over—our family legacy in the military. And then…” She shrugs. “The terrorists attacked, and everything changed.”
    “To be honest,” Abby admits, “it wasn’t a change I welcomed. I never imagined myself as a soldier’s wife. It was a world, a culture, so foreign to me, and I prided myself on being in control of my own life.”
    “I sensed that about you,” Sharice says, heading back to the closet.
    “It’s hard to give up your freedom to ‘orders.’ I didn’t want to be married to the military, but suddenly it became part of John, part of the whole package if I wanted to be with him. And I did. I couldn’t imagine my life without him.” Her lower lip begins to curl as a sob threatens, but Abby bites down on it, tamping down the inevitable pain. Not here, not in front of her mother-in-law, who always seems to be silently questioning Abby’s mettle.
    “Your feelings about military service aside”—Sharice steps out of the closet to make eye contact—“no one has ever questioned your love for my son. We could tell you adored him, and he was just crazy about you, too.” Sharice sighs. “And although you didn’t choose military service for him, you also did not stand in his way. That’s admirable.”
    “I don’t know how you did it all these years, moving across the country when orders came up, being a single parent while Jim was deployed.”
    “You just do it. You adapt.” Sharice picks out a pair of black pumps from the floor of the closet and shrugs. “At least you’ve come to understand the dedication of the military community—unlike the rest of the country. I swear, they believe we sit here on base and hold Bingo tournaments. It’s always been an issue for me, the lack of support for the military community. Too many people don’t appreciate the sacrifices made by soldiers in the armed forces and their families. People just aren’t patriotic anymore.”
    Does Sharice think she’s lacking in patriotism?
    Picking up the photo of John in dress uniform, Abby studies the folds of the American flag flapping in the wind behind him and has to steel herself to keep from choking up. Her eyes still fill with tears when she witnesses the lowering of the flag at dusk here at Fort Lewis. Since 2001 she has not been able to witness a ceremony with the Stars and Stripes without choking up, recalling the image of the firefighters who raised the flag at