BernieHund: The Political Watchdog

I find it particularly difficult to write about the death toll of our military in Iraq.  I have spent most of the day trying to find appropriate words.  The actual number of dead military from the war on terrorism is 4,003.

Running an errand today I passed the cemetary filled with the simple white head stones.  I turned in behind two cars and found myself winding along the narrow paved road, weaving my way around the circular drive that holds the majority of grave sites.  Perhaps, it was the uniformity of the graves, the spacing, the monotony of the same head stones creeping up a hill that caused the chill to run up my spine.  It was my first visit to the military cemetary. 

The car in front of me stopped.  A woman with two children got out.  I stopped a respectable distance behind the minivan and watched the woman holding onto her children’s hands as they made their way through the maze of graves.  I noticed that the burial sites were flat, unlike the old days, when a mound of earth would clearly mark the occupation of a grave.  I noticed that each of the children carried a single rose.

Admittedly, I felt that I was a voyeur, invading a very private and intimate time within a family.  The woman released the hands of the children, one a boy, the other a girl.  I would guess that the boy was older, maybe five or so.  The little girl dressed in pink walked with her head down. 

I got out of my car and meandered through the headstones in the same direction as the young woman with her children.  I tried to keep my distance but was drawn to see the ritual the children were performing.  First the little girl laid her red rose in front of the white stone marker.  She never lifted her head.  As soon as she took her position beside her mother, the young lad stepped forward and laid his rose beside the first.  His head was held high as he saluted the grave stone.  The mother stood stiffly between the children, her head tilted back as if an answer would appear in the sky.  Then she squatted down to her children and embraced both at the same time. 

I turned away and headed towards my car.  I felt guilt, I suppose.  I had stood behind a row of white stones that were lined up like dominoes watching a mother and her two children silently mourn the loss of a husband and father.  The trio passed me as they walked back to their car, the mother with a child claimed by each hand, tears streaming down her empty face.

The little girl made a youngster’s attempt at a skip.  “Mama, when is daddy coming home?  I miss him.”

Words still fail me.