Way back when, in a time when we were all Americans, I remember a cold but beautiful November day my father took me to a parade. We were living in Latrobe PA at the time and I was probably five years old. This was a time when people lined the streets and cheered the Veterans as they marched down Main Street.

There was large stage on one side of the street, with banners and bunting of red, white and blue. A dozen or so stiff wooden chairs were set in line down the back of the stage, and the men who sat in them were also decorated, the uniforms and ribbons crisp and sharp in the morning light.

While the parade was in honor of all veterans, these were the men who no longer could march, the ones who’d fought the good fight and paid a price.

My father joined in the parade while I stood near the stage, a vantage point given to me because of my father’s volunteer work with the local veterans group. I watched as one of the men on the stage began to cry, and his fellow soldiers each placed a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

Years later, I sat and watched as the parade came to my home. Friends gathered and honored us by marching through our house. Sort of an interior home-makeover. All the pictures we always intended on hanging were now positioned along the stairway, and oil paintings were placed with care on the walls.

Furniture rearranged to the proper places, with accents and accessories highlighting them, giving the room that decorator touch. A little cleaning, a little polishing, the parade spilled out into the yard as our neighbors spruced up the entryway by redoing the planters, adding a touch of color for the fall. Landon and Laura put a fresh coat of stain on the front door, bringing it back from the dull, weather worn look.

Mr. Sun blessed us on the November day, and the parade was wonderful. Later that evening, as Nancy and I walked through the house admiring each and every thing, I saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. I knew she was happy, which certainly filled my heart.

Later, in the stillness of the night, I realized the only sound I heard was her soft breathing.

For the first time in days, there was absolutely no sound of the dragon’s wings. For the first time in days, the tears were tears of joy. Instead of sadness, my heart was full of love.

I sat in the darkness and held her hand, giving thanks that she saw the transformation and magic that happened and that she could not only be honored by the parade, but also witnessed that it was a token of love given by our extended family.

And that, my friends, is priceless.

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