The French Picnic

Marie pulls the car off the road near the cross marking the edge of the village. Her two girls, six and seven and full of life, ran out of the car and scamper off into the field where the bluebells flicker in the sea breeze coming in from Dieppe. Her daughters laugh as they chase butterflies. Marie marvels at their innocence and joie de vivre.

André steps out of the car, plants his cane into the soil, and takes a deep breath. His left leg twinges as a sliver of shrapnel shifts, reminding him of that day on the beach in Normandy. His children shriek and run up to him. He smiles and forgets his leg.

"Papa, is it time for our picnic?"

"Girls! Be patient! We just got here!" Marie intercedes, laughing.

She spreads the old army blanket over the grass. The crystal blue sky reaches the horizon where puffy clouds gather over the sea. Her husband eases the picnic basket onto the blanket.

"Thank you, André, go stretch your legs. We'll finish setting up!"

Martine, the eldest, strolls back, her little sister, Nicole, following behind.

"Martine, my dear, please go get Papa's chair and the little table. Nicole, go help your sister."

The girls amble to the car, whispering. Martine carries the folding chair, and Nicole brings the footstool that her father made years ago. Marie places a plate of fresh rustic bread with farm cheeses on the table, and next to it, the cast iron casserole with chicken legs, still warm from the oven.

A short distance away, they see André standing by the cross, reading the inscription. He reaches up and places his hand on the bronze plaque.

"Come on Papa! We're ready! We're hungry!" The girls are excited. The younger one turns to mother. "What's Papa doing?"

"He's paying his respects," says Marie, keeping an eye on her husband. "Be patient, he's coming."

As André starts back, his cane catches in a mole hole and throws his balance, but he steadies himself. Marie watches him as he takes his seat. She pours two glasses of wine. The girls know that this is important. It is always a sunny day in May, and Mama packs the picnic, and Papa wears his nice sweater. André accepts the glass of wine then raises it.

"To Emmanuel my brother, and your cousin Philippe. May their souls rest in peace."

He and Marie sip the wine. The girls drink their apple juice, look at each other, then giggle innocently. Marie smiles at them and passes out the chicken. A seagull circles overhead. André savors his wine, gazes out towards the sea and recalls the day of the landing. The cry of the gull brings him back. This year, for the first time, the girls are helping. Both are taller, more like their mother with each passing season. The picnic is over, the dead honored so that life may go on. It is time to go home.