changing hands.

It was in a baggie in a box for more than 50 years.
Stars and stripes mingling with mothballs and cedar smells.
Covered by blankets and keepsakes, sweaters and nightgowns.
Forgotten at the bottom of the box.
She rescued the cloth, placing it in another box, this one with a window, so we could see the pride in the colors.
The cloth of a war long gone, for a man long dead.
It had sat draped on top of his box, covering his body,
that he bore to foreign lands to save us all.

Folded by warriors and into another's hands it had gone,
And then into the bag,
Into the box,
For more than 50 years.
Until we brought it out.
Unrolled, not unfurled.
To see the sun and feel the wind, but never again to blow in it.
We unrolled to count the holes and the stars,
48 stars in all, more holes.

Passed to another's hands and onto another box, covering another body
that was carried all over the earth.
Another warrior.
More lands seen by those closed eyes,
More stories told,
Wars fought,
Children loved,
Life lived.

It covered this body and then passed hands again,
Folded again in the spring warmth.
Folded with painstaking care and presented to a son, uncle, father, brother, grandpa.
48 stars in all, more holes.
To go onto a mantle, as far from a box as possible.
For how long?
Until another box is needed.
Or until the holes consume it.

bubbles everywhere.

I'm always surprised by life's little quirks, that most of the time, you get exactly what you need when you really need it.

Today, it came in the form of bubbles.

I was sitting in my room, working on a proposal for a project I'm going to be working on for a design class, when all of a sudden:

"Hey, Bethany?" When something is wrong, it's always a question.

"Hey, Bethany," she said again, "I think we have a problem."

"What kind of problem," my 'mom' voice and instincts starting to kick in.

"There's something wrong with our dishwasher."

"OK, like what sort of something?"

"It's leaking."

I get up and walk out of my room, past the breakfast bar and around the corner into our kitchen where I'm confronted with bubbles. Lots of bubbles. I launch into action. I quickly turn off the dishwasher, which as I stood there for 1/2 a second was churning out more and more suds. And then I open the door.

Bubbles. It was filled with bubbles.

And then, it happened. I laughed. Harder than I've laughed in about a week. You see, my grandfather died on Friday, and laughing has been exactly the opposite of what I've been doing since then. I looked at Colleen, standing, staring at the overflowing meringue that was our kitchen, I just couldn't help myself.

"Hey." When you're embarrassed, it's never a question.

"I'm sorry," I managed to blurt out between chuckles. "I promise you, I'm not laughing at you, just the way it looks, it's ridiculous. Everyone does this once. Did you use the dish detergent or dish soap?"

"Um..."

I reached into the cupboard and compared the bottles. "Did you use this one, or this one?" She pointed to the orange bottle, the dish soap, and it clicked for her.

We spent the next 15 minutes elbow deep in bubbles, laughing as we contorted our bodies so we could reach the back of the dishwasher. Cursing our neighbors who aren't awake at 11 a.m. on Sunday to lend us a mop, which of course, we've never needed in two years until the last three months we live together.

So we mopped and bailed with paper towels, sponges and dish rags, plastic bowls and "I'm 21 Today!" cups until the dishwasher was as empty as it could be. We started it again, putting all the dirty dishes back in, and not 10 minutes later did the problem begin again. We'll need another angle of attack -- Colleen's decided we should just let the bubbles subside and then wipe away the residue. We'll see, right?

My grandpa always said, if you can't laugh at yourself, then something's wrong. Something has been wrong the last few days, and laughter has really been limited. I think it was his way of reminding me that things are OK. That this is what he wanted. It's hard, but laughing helps. Bubbles help.