Where most people would have a Living Room, we had a "Freedom" Room. Named thus for the patriotic themed pictures that adorned every wall, the red and white striped afghans that covered the chairs, the eagle and flag ceramic figurines that sat across the fireplace mantle, and the books on the Founding Fathers that stood proudly on the bookcase in the corner.
And yes, we really did call it the Freedom Room in our everyday conversations.
"Has anyone seen (insert certain sister who will not be named)? I'm going to pummel her for reading my journal!"
"Uh, I think she's in the Freedom Room!"
And obviously we knew which room we were talking about, but every now and then a new comer would stand and stare blankly at us when we told them to go to the Freedom Room, even though you'd think it was obvious.
"Uh, what's the Freedom room?"
*sigh* " Well, since the walls and furniture didn't give it away, you know the room with no carpet? The one with the concrete floor that's painted blue? Ya, THAT'S the Freedom room."
Perhaps that is why visitors were so well behaved. They were wondering where we kept the Prison Room.
I did not forget Memorial Day on Monday. I would never forget.
Especially not this year. For just one month ago, my oldest brother returned home from Iraq after being there for a whole year.
This is what he left behind to serve his country, and what he had anxiously awaiting his return.
So no, I did not forget.