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Max stood amongst the crowd around the memorial. The sun had broken through the clouds earlier and brought down a ray of light upon the group. Both the sun and the clouds were dancing that tango, that tango of a crisp Autumn day. Being thankful that rain wasn't showing up, although it would be fitting.

A bugle sounded off in the distance and many heads were bowed in unison, out of respect for those who had perished, from wars long ago and not long ago. Pretty placed his hand on Max's shoulder. "How goes it pal?" 

Max gave him a sideways glance. "Glad to have you here."

"Wouldn't miss this for the worlds," Pretty replied; he had on his greys, with no medals; he wanted to be part of the crowd. "My name would have been carved in stone with Morris and Thandlerude if it wasn't for you."

Max smiled upon hearing Thandlerude's name. He remembered when he was sitting at post, and Thanderlude would be leaning back and playing his harmonica, and old blues song. Max could hear the song in his head but he had forgotten the name.

"Thandlerude," Max repeated. "What was that song he constantly played?"

Pretty thought about it for a few seconds. "I really don't know. But it was a haunting melody. I think it was an Otis Rush tune."

The bugle was done and then a little girl stepped forward and spoke into the mic. She was repeating a poem that was written many years ago, about a field. A field where flowers grew among the dead.

"I am going to look into it," Max said. He felt the vibration of his cellphone, but he made no attempt to answer it. He could talk later, now was the time of remembrance.