It was the first Veteran’s Day parade I had gone to since my husband died.

He, Charlie, had been a soldier stationed in the Midwest during the Cold War, and he joked that he and he alone had kept the Soviets from invading Indiana. Charlie joked about a lot of things. Firemen often did that to counterbalance the terrible realities they faced every day.

But Charlie wasn’t like that. He was just funny. One day he might be advocating that we invade Canada because “it’s the largest undefended border in the world and ... such a waste.” Another he would be telling me stories about how “Sister Mary Flowerpot ” used to “cuff me on the side of the head” during math class in Catholic school

I wasn’t looking for a husband when I met him, but any guy who can make you laugh so hard that you fall off the sofa has a major edge.

Charlie has been gone a long time now. All of the guys from his firehouse are gone. Most had retired in their mid-forties, went on to successful second careers, and lived into their sixties. They had fought fires in the 1970s before anyone used oxygen masks, and in those days (arson and riots in Lower Manhattan, Red Hook, Bedford-Stuyvesant, Harlem, and the Bronx), firemen like Charlie ran into burning buildings up to twelve times a day.

Eventually they all died from heart disease, lung cancer, or emphysema … the dire consequences of having breathed in carbon monoxide, smoke and soot. Yet all of them, and Charlie was no exception, had loved being firemen, and none would have exchanged the experience for another few years of life.

This isn’t supposed to be about Charlie, though. It’s supposed to be about how much he loved veterans. Whenever we used to stand on the sidewalk and applaud them as they marched by, Charlie would murmur, “If they hadn’t been there, we wouldn’t be here.”

Veterans were his heroes, and Charlie was a hero worshipper.

Following his example, my radar is always on the alert for our men and women in uniform. I buy lunches for guys and gals in the National Guard. I send money to the USO the VFW, Wounded Warriors, and Paralyzed Veterans.

And I am mad about poppies.

The Veteran’s Day parade that I mentioned above could have taken place on any Main Street in North America. And I could have been any woman in any town learning how to face the rest of her life without her man.

Charlie had been much older than I, so on that particular November 11, I was still young enough to be pretty. Within a week of my husband dying, I had already formulated my philosophy of widowhood. Simply stated, it was: “Put on makeup, wear bright colors, go to work, don’t feel sorry for yourself, and function.”

Not exactly a twelve-step program, but it kept my chin off the ground.

The parade was supposed to begin at 10:00 a.m., but with all of the high school bands, scout troops, floats, classic cars, and veterans, I knew from experience that it would not reach my street corner until about 10:15. So I decided to people-watch. I saw families with small children craning their heads toward the sound of distant music. I saw scruffy Vietnam veterans wearing biker jackets and purple hearts.

And I saw Howard.

I don’t know if his name really was Howard, but that’s what I have come to call him. He was sitting on a folding chair behind a small table and wearing a dark blue cap with the words WORLD WAR II VETERAN stitched over the visor. He held a single red silk poppy in a big, calloused hand. On the table in front of him were more silk poppies and a white plastic jar filled with coins and dollar bills.

I strode across the street.

“Hi,” I said.

Howard had a deeply lined but handsome face, brown eyes under bushy gray eyebrows, a hawk nose, and a strong jaw. A rim of white hair poked out from under his cap.

When he looked up at me, I saw that his eyes were not pale and watery, like the eyes of so many old people. They were alert, observing, and accepting.

“May I have a poppy?” I asked.

He gave me the one in his hand. I stuck it in my hair, reached into my purse, pulled out a ten dollar bill, and tucked it into the plastic jar.

I said, “Thank you for saving the world.”

Then I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. When I straighten up again, I saw a sweetly surprised and poignant smile on his face.

He said, “Nobody has kissed me since my wife died.”

I smiled back at him, and I walked away.

It was a lovey Veteran’s Day parade. Toddlers clutched small flags in their pudgy hands. High school majorettes twirled batons and led bands playing Sousa marches. Firemen grinned at girls from a bright red engine draped in American flags. And gray-haired ladies from the Women’s Army Corps sat in an ancient Jeep and waved to their great grandchildren.

I leaned against a lamp post and closed my eyes against the brilliant sun.

The smile that still lingered on my face grew wider as I thought about heroes, husbands, veterans, a man who might or might not be named Howard.

And an unforgettable kiss.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2021. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com