The Weight of the Window Banners: Anchoring Grief in Middle-Grade Fiction by Todd Burleson

The Weight of the Window Banners: Writing Grief and the WWII Home Front

Hello, GROG readers! Todd here.

I’ve been thinking lately about what it means to truly “hold one’s breath” on the page.

When we write historical fiction, especially about an era like the American home front during World War II, it is tempting to fill our early drafts with the big movements. We tend to focus on the troop deployments, the battles, and the busy smoke of factories. But I have come to believe that the most accurate map of 1944 was not found in the war room. It was found in the windows of ordinary homes.

Hanging there were small, simple banners. A Blue Star meant a family member was actively serving. A Gold Star meant they were not coming home. As writers, we know these are not just historical props or set dressing. They are the silent beacons by which a community, and our characters, navigate their own vulnerability.

Finding the Compass in the Story

In drafting my middle-grade novel, The Secret War, I found myself deeply drawn to twelve-year-old Billy. For him, the Blue Star in his window is a compass. He is desperate to be a “good soldier” for his brother, Mike, who is fighting in the Pacific. It is this very desire to serve, to stay “on course,” that makes him so vulnerable to the shadows of the era.

But in Chapter 18, the flight path changes. A yellow Western Union telegram arrives. The Blue Star turns to Gold.

I know that including the death of a sibling in a book for young readers is a heavy choice. But over my decades in the classroom and the school library, I learned something vital. Children do not need us to sanitize the world. They need us to help them breathe through it.

Trusting Our Young Readers

History is not just a series of dates. It is the quiet, terrifying courage of ordinary people. By trusting our young readers to sit with the complexity of that Gold Star, we are not just teaching them about 1944. We are using our stories to teach them the most profound human skill. We are teaching them the ability to bear witness with kindness.

Anchoring Grief in the Tangible

This brings me back to those window banners and why physical objects are so crucial in our craft. Death is a massive, abstract concept. For a young reader, comprehending the permanence of loss can be completely overwhelming. But an object, a Gold Star in a window, a faded photograph, an empty chair at the dinner table, or a pocket watch that no longer ticks, gives that grief a physical form.

It gives the character something tangible to hold, to hide, or to finally let go of. When we anchor the heavy reality of death to a specific object, we give our readers a safe container for their empathy. The grief becomes something they can see and understand without being completely consumed by it.

I would love to hear from you all. How do you approach the heavy topics in your own writing? What physical objects have you used in your manuscripts to help ground your characters when they are facing a profound loss? Let's discuss it in the comments!

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A quick note: If you are looking for a wholesome, screen-free summer read that introduces ten to thirteen-year-olds to incredible real-world history, The Secret War is out now in all formats! You can find it on Amazon, and I have also put together a free Educator’s Resource Kit with a 1940s Student Field Notes workbook over at toddburlesonwonders.com.