It was folded into a triangle. Red. White. Blue. The red of a burning fire. The white of a dove’s feather. The blue of the deep ocean. There were 13 stripes composed of red and white. There were seven red stripes and six white stripes. They symbolized the original 13 colonies of the United States of America. There were 50 stars, all white. They were surrounded by a blue border like a starry sky. Unlike the stripes, these stars symbolized the 50 states of America. However, the fabric all looked the same with strong thread, daring embroidery along the edges, and bright ink.

It stood out among all the white and green. The white buildings and the tombstones were almost blinding with the bright sun beating down on our faces. The green grass smelled freshly cut and the scent filled the air. I could almost forget why I was there. The weather did not properly represent the gloomy day that it was. A day in which would last a lifetime and be a dreadful memory forever.

Looking at it seemed to drown out the blaring trumpets, bagpipes, and shooting guns. They sounded at attention, and even with the fuzziness of a 5 year old’s brain, the sounds meshed together drilling into my brain. A chorus I would remember forever and one I thought you could hear for miles. It was the salute to my grandfather.

The army issued white-gloved hands folded it up with military precision and slowly placed it into my grandmother’s shaking hands. She was grieving, but strong. She looked like the woman I always knew even with the tears running down her face. My grandmother held his honor in her hands as she took a part of him home. It was my grandfather’s American flag.

Major in Intelligence for World War II, the preorganization for the CIA. His memory would live on in the families he helped save and he would remain in mine. I saw him every time I was in Newport, Rhode Island. His flag remained in a framed case on the wall. The dark chestnut wood was two inches wide, forming the perimeter of the glass case. It showcased his flag and everything else from his military career. His medals, his memories, enveloping you and drawing you into his past.

Every time I would walk into that sun faded pastel room, I would sit down at the mahogany colored piano and look at his past. The room always smelled like greenery and dust. The scents leaking in from the attached greenhouse. It reminded me of the outdoors, of the place he would eternally lay. Looking at his flag, I would picture him with his wrinkled, serious face but kind baby blue eyes. Looking at his memories, I would remember him. I would remember all the times I spent with him and all the times I would never get to spend with him. I used to sit at that piano and play all the songs I knew, thinking that if I played them in front of his flag, I would be playing in front of him. As if his flag was a portal to him.

That one object was my link to my grandfather. I would look at those three colors, that red, that white, that blue, and smile. Not because I was happy, not because I wasn’t sad, but because I was proud. I was proud of my grandfather and everything he did. I was proud of how he fought until the very end, and I can remember the last time I saw him in the medical care facility. He never stopped fighting and his memory gives me the strength to never stop fighting. My grandfather’s American flag, although it may be small, has always had a big impact on the way I see the world. On the way I chose to live my life and the way I chose to respond to everything that happens in it.

I grew up in a family were both sides have been, and currently are, in the United States Army. They inspire me just as my grandfather does every time I look at his meticulously folded up flag. No matter how long ago he passed away, those three colors still shine as bright as the day they did when my grandmother took them in her arms. Red. White. Blue. Three of my most favorite colors.