The Flag Pin

The volunteer was closing the lost-and-found desk when Orla hurried up, out of breath.

“Please,” Orla said. “I lost a pin. A little flag pin.”

“We have a few,” the volunteer said. She opened a box. “Can you describe it?”

“It's the one with two flags crossed together,” Orla said. “Ireland and Japan. My grandfather gave it to me. He worked at this festival for thirty years.”

The volunteer looked through the box slowly. There were pins from many countries — an international mix of small, bright flags. This was a cultural festival, after all, and people lost things every year.

“Is this it?” she asked, holding up a tiny pin. Two flags, crossed.

Orla's eyes filled. “Yes. That's it. Thank you so much.”

“You know,” the volunteer said gently, “this festival gives an award each year to its oldest helper. Your grandfather won it once, didn't he? His name is on the wall by the door.”

Orla didn't know. She turned and looked. There, in a small gold frame, was her grandfather's photo.

She held the pin tightly. “He never told me,” she said.