The flags attached to the tops of wooden crosses, flutter in the afternoon breeze. I imagine it to be the rustling sound of prayers, flying up to heaven from the lips of the bereft.
We walk among the crosses and look at the pictures of young–very young–men cut down, some valiantly, all violently. They are 20 and 18 and 30. Such young men with smiling faces and handwritten notes: "Dear Mom, if you're reading this, it means I didn't make it..."
Another note, written by a mother. An attempt to comfort herself and others as they check the DOD casualty list. "Not that it will help," she writes, "the death of your child shatters your life."
We sing "God Bless America," me and my children, standing between the wooden crosses.
The twins, sitting in their stroller, shriek impatiently.
There are tears in my eyes and questions in my heart. I look at my two sons and think of all the other grieving mothers who won't get to see their children this weekend.
I say a prayer for their comfort, a prayer of gratitude for my cousin who returned safely from Iraq and a prayer of guidance for our nation.
This 4th of July I will remember that lives are being shattered by this war on the other side of the world. I will remember. And I will pray for peace.
