I remember him, sitting in the recliner; he used to call me "Miss America" as I shuffled through the kitchen. This memory of my grandfather seems as though mundane, but behind this superficial statement sat a man who had memories that I was too young to be attentive to. As my family would sit on the porch, in the Pennsylvania summertime, it would be the fireflies that caught my attention, not any conversation with my grandfather.

Ten years later, my interests have somewhat shifted from those I had as a young child. I must admit that this shift has not completely changed my view of the world. But rather, it is no longer merely the firefly that catches my attention, but the ardent ferocity with which he buzzes in the twilight. It is the way in which he glows against the darkness of his world, the way he flashes, even when caught in the palm of the hand, that makes me sure that his glowing is done in remembrance.

As a seven-year-old, it was difficult for me to understand how my grandfather had lived his life and with what purpose. There was little talk of his experiences, at least little that I can remember. And yet, I do remember a picture perched atop my grandmother's dresser. It was black and white, and had the image of a man, dressed in uniform, standing in front of a World War II airplane. This man was my grandfather, a World War II veteran, and it alone is the only recount that I remember of his participation in the war.

The summer before last, I visited my grandmother and helped her to pack her belongings and move from her old house. As I cleared off her dresser, I again came across the picture that has surfaced in my mind many times before: that of my grandfather in uniform. At first, I could not bring myself to place it into the box with the other family pictures. Somehow, it did not seem to belong there. Instead, I gazed at it,trying to record every detail that was captured that day. Only after a while did I deliberately set it in the top of the box.

Just as with fireflies, it is not the photograph itself that captivates my attention so much as the image of my grandfather, having gone to war for a principle that he strongly believed in. It is the impression of his self-sacrifice to serve his country at a time of global turmoil that strikes me the hardest. However, I believe it is the knowledge that there are so many others who possess pictures very similar to my grandfather's that has the most influence upon me. It is the fact that there are so many other beacons of glowing hope that buzz in the evening air that allows me to believe in the potential of humanity's goodness and to faithfully trust in the compassion of those like my grandfather.

Veteran's Day, for me, is the glimmer of these fireflies, quietly buzzing in the shadows of dusk. It is that glowing remembrance of a picture, that shimmer of hope, beckoning me to follow it. It is the impression of a simple man, like my grandfather, who bravely made my world a better place. Veteran's Day is like a summer evening in the midst of a field where there is no light to follow but the blinking of fireflies against the horizon. I assume that these flickers of light are what unwavering faith looked like from the cockpit of a World War II fighter plane-like fireflies against the horizon.