Jenny looked at the grave stone in front of her. Poppies had been laid in front of it and there were many other people gathered around various other grave stones. Jenny could see all the letters she had laid underneath a slab of tile over the years. Sighing bravely, she pulled another letter from her bag. Taking another deep breath she began to read,
"Dear Dad, I turned 18 yesterday. They told me how you died. How you didn't leave the guns even though you had been wounded several times. How you refused to let the enemy pass so that your little girl could live in a world without having to worry about being alive tomorrow. So I wrote you another letter. All my letters thus far have been all about my life and how I miss you. This one will be the same but different.
I joined a group that raises awareness for soldiers who have done more than asked to save this world. The unappreciated ones who are buried in hole on foreign ground. Like you. I have a boyfriend now, he is in the army as well. He hopes he can live up to your standard...." Jenny's voice caught as she tried not to cry. Taking a shaky breath she continued,
"I'm writing a paper for history about heroes. And I'm writing about the men on the battlefield who died. But I'm saying that real heroes never actually die. They live on in the medals, the memories, the photos and the letters that their family still have. Because the heroes aren't the ones who survived. The real heroes are the ones who gave their lives so others could live. Those who refused to leave the side of a fallen comrade, those who wouldn't let the enemy kill a stranger. Those who were branded a coward for not wanting to kill man and yet were killed in cold blood. My main point is that heroes never really die. Sometimes I can still see your smile or hear your laugh. Because you are a hero and you never really will die in my memory.
I cried when I turned 18 because you weren't there so I could be. I love you daddy, and swear to always keep your memory alive in my mind."
Jenny wiped the tears that were falling, like a rain storm, from her eyes. She laid the letter under the slab and dropped the poppies in front of the grave stone. The she turned to live her life. The life her father had died to give her.