My grandfather served in the Pacific Theatre of WWII and I had the opportunity of living in the Flanders for a season. The potato incident was also factual and forms the core basis of this prose poem.

 

 

Patrick’s fascination with history drew him to Europe, to the Flanders region where echoes of the Great War linger. In the fields and paths, he traced the steps of soldiers, thoughts filled with his grandfather, a young digger in those dark times.

 

In Julian’s old farmhouse, Patrick found solace. The creaky attic a temporary home, the fields a canvas for reflection. Helping farmers, he felt the land’s weight, history’s whispers beneath every step.

 

One day, walking through the fields, a truck loaded with potatoes jolted, a few tumbling free. Patrick, with reverence, picked them up, stuffing them in his jacket. Julian questioned, “Why keep those bruised potatoes?”

 

Patrick replied, “It feels wrong to waste them, especially here. This land has seen so much.” Julian nodded, the sentiment understood, if not fully grasped. They continued to the apple orchard, laughter and joy painting the afternoon.

 

At dinner, Patrick served the potatoes. Julian’s mother smiled, shaking her head at the boy’s sense of connection. “You have a wise soul,” she said, her voice gentle. Patrick knew, in those simple actions, he honored the past.

 

In the attic’s quiet, Patrick felt peace. His journey was more than history; it was understanding and respect. The land, scarred and nourished, held stories in every grain of soil, every bruise on a potato. Patrick paid tribute to those stories, finding his place in the vast tapestry of time.