December 14, Saturday

THE MORNING sun glinted off frost-covered headstones as Sawyer and I moved through the graveyard, laying wreaths against the graves of veterans from disparate wars. The evergreen scent mixed with the crisp winter air, creating a peaceful atmosphere despite the solemn task.

I brushed away dead leaves from the restored headstone of Cyrus Watt, the Civil War soldier who'd lost his life mere weeks before the end of the conflict. "He was so young," I murmured.

"Most of them are," Sawyer offered as he laid a wreath against the headstone. He straightened, stepped back and saluted.

"How far-reaching is Wreaths Across America?"

"Two million volunteers in all fifty states, at sea, and abroad. Their goal is to touch the grave of every American veteran who ever served in any war."

"That's ambitious."

"And doable," Sawyer said with confidence. "If people take the time to remember the men and women who served and died so we could breathe free air."

My heart welled with pride. "I'll do my part going forward."

He gave me a sad little smile. "In New York?"

"That's right," I murmured.

We continued laying wreaths on the handful of graves, most of them located in the rear of the graveyard. I read each name aloud as we laid the wreaths, watching Sawyer's precise movements, the way he adjusted each wreath until it sat just right.

"What was your favorite part?" I asked, breaking our comfortable silence. "About being a soldier?"

He thought for a moment, running his fingers along the red ribbon of the wreath he held. "The camaraderie. Being part of something bigger than yourself." A small smile played at his lips. "Knowing that at the end of the day, you did some good in the world."

"And now, with the Reserves?"

"Same thing, really. When there's a natural disaster or emergency, we're there to help. It's not glamorous work, but it matters."

I studied his face as he spoke, noting the way his eyes lit up, how his shoulders straightened almost unconsciously. "You miss it, don't you? Active duty?"

"That obvious, huh?" He sighed, his breath visible in the cold air. "Yeah, I do. But after my last tour..." He shook his head. "I needed to come home, put down some roots. Do something with my hands that builds instead of..." He trailed off.

"Instead of destroys?"

"Something like that." He picked up another wreath. "Working with stone helps. Each piece I repair, each grave I restore – it's like putting something back the way it's supposed to be."

I slipped my hand into his. "You honor them by remembering."

He squeezed my fingers, his skin warm despite the cold. "Sometimes I think that's the real reason I came back to Irving. Not just to escape my memories, but to make sure other memories aren't forgotten."

The sun climbed higher as we finished laying the wreaths, each evergreen circle a promise of remembrance. When we were done, we stood at the entrance to the labyrinth, looking back at our morning's work. Each wreath marked a life given in service, a story worth preserving.

"Thank you for helping," Sawyer said, pulling me close. "This day... it means a lot."

I leaned into his warmth, understanding finally flowing through me. This was what had drawn him back to Irving, to this graveyard. Not just family secrets or unfinished business with Rose, but a deeper need to heal. To restore. To remember.