Many have left their families to defend our freedom. We salute

Host:
The town square was quiet beneath the fading autumn light, the kind of amber glow that carries both beauty and grief. Flags hung half-mast along the main street, swaying softly in the cool evening breeze. Children’s laughter echoed faintly from a nearby park, then disappeared into the hush that settles over places where remembrance has weight.

A small bandstand stood at the center, draped in red, white, and blue. Folding chairs were arranged neatly before it, rows upon rows of absence waiting to be filled. On the steps of the bandstand, Jack sat alone, wearing his old military jacket — the patches faded, the edges frayed but cared for. Beside him, Jeeny placed a bouquet of wildflowers at the foot of the flagpole. Her movements were slow, deliberate, like a prayer made of gesture.

The town’s clock struck six — six slow, resonant chimes that trembled through the air.

Jeeny: softly “Bob Taft once said — ‘Many have left their families to defend our freedom. We salute their bravery; we express our appreciation and support to their families. And we pray for their safe return.’”

Jack: quietly, without looking up “You know, people say those words every year — at parades, at ceremonies — and yet, when you’re the one who left, or the one who stayed behind… they don’t sound like words anymore. They sound like distance.”

Jeeny: gently “Distance that never really closes, even when they come home.”

Host:
The flag stirred, its fabric whispering against the wind. Somewhere nearby, a radio played faintly — an old country song about love and waiting. The air smelled of fallen leaves and woodsmoke.

Jeeny turned, sitting beside him on the step. She looked at his hands — strong, lined, holding still as if remembering something fragile.

Jeeny: softly “When Taft spoke of families, I think he meant more than gratitude. He meant the invisible sacrifice — the waiting, the wondering, the quiet prayers whispered into empty kitchens.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. The ones who wait… they serve too. They fight in silence.”

Jeeny: after a pause “You still think about them, don’t you? The ones who didn’t make it back.”

Jack: his voice low, steady “Every day. You don’t forget faces like that. You see them in the mirror, in the quiet, in the small things — like a shadow that never leaves.”

Jeeny: softly “You came back, Jack.”

Jack: looking down “Physically, yeah. But pieces of you don’t always follow.”

Host:
The wind picked up, scattering a few leaves across the square. The flowers Jeeny had laid began to tremble, their petals quivering like breath.

A small group of townspeople began to gather near the bandstand — older veterans, families clutching framed photos, children holding candles. Their faces bore that familiar blend of pride and ache — the look of those who understand both loss and gratitude.

Jeeny: quietly “When Taft said, ‘We salute their bravery,’ I think he wasn’t just talking about the soldiers. He was talking about the courage it takes to live through the waiting — the bravery of hope.”

Jack: nodding “Hope’s a different kind of battle. You don’t get medals for it, but it’s harder to win.”

Jeeny: gently “And yet, we keep fighting for it.”

Host:
The sky deepened, the first stars beginning to pierce through the violet dusk. Someone in the crowd started to sing — a low, trembling voice carrying the first notes of “America the Beautiful.” One by one, others joined, until the square was filled with soft harmony, imperfect but sincere.

Jeeny’s eyes glistened in the dim light. She looked at Jack — the way his jaw tightened, the way he stared at the horizon, as if listening for voices long gone.

Jeeny: softly “You don’t talk about your time overseas much.”

Jack: after a pause “Because it’s not something you talk about. It’s something you live with. You carry it — the noise, the silence, the ghosts. But when people gather like this…” he gestures toward the crowd “…you realize the world still remembers. And that makes the weight easier.”

Jeeny: gently “That’s what remembrance is — not just honoring the fallen, but keeping the living from falling apart.”

Jack: nodding “Exactly. Every prayer for their return is also a promise — that we won’t forget why they went.”

Host:
The song ended, leaving the sound of the wind and the faint murmur of people lighting candles. The glow of the small flames shimmered against their faces — a constellation of memory born from human hands.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I’ve always loved that last line of Taft’s quote: ‘We pray for their safe return.’ It’s not just about survival — it’s about wholeness. About coming home to a world that still believes in what they fought for.”

Jack: quietly “And what if that world’s changed? What if it doesn’t believe anymore?”

Jeeny: after a long silence “Then it’s our turn to believe for them.”

Host:
A single bugle began to play from somewhere unseen — Taps, rising through the cool air like a tear turned into sound. The notes trembled, carrying through the square, through the crowd, through the heart of the night itself.

Jack stood slowly, his gaze fixed on the flag as it caught the last light. Jeeny rose beside him.

Neither spoke for a while. The music said everything words could not.

When it ended, Jack finally broke the silence.

Jack: softly “He was right, you know. About sacrifice. About families. Every soldier fights two wars — one abroad, one at home. And both deserve to be remembered.”

Jeeny: gently “And the victory of both is peace.”

Jack: nodding “Yeah. Peace — the thing everyone fights for but no one ever really wins.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe peace isn’t a victory. Maybe it’s a vow — to keep trying, even after the fighting’s done.”

Host:
The camera would pull back now — the two of them standing in the square, surrounded by candlelight and quiet song. The flag moved softly above them, neither triumphant nor defeated, just enduring.

And as the night deepened into stillness, Bob Taft’s words would echo like a collective heartbeat:

“Many have left their families to defend our freedom. We salute their bravery; we express our appreciation and support to their families. And we pray for their safe return.”

Because remembrance
is not nostalgia —
it is responsibility.

Freedom is never self-sustaining;
it is inherited through sacrifice,
renewed through gratitude,
and guarded by memory.

The brave do not march for glory —
they march for the promise
that love can outlast fear.

And though many go,
and not all return,
each name,
each face,
each silent prayer
reminds the living
that peace is not given —
it is kept,
by those who remember.