(no subject)
The fourth of July has always held a…different place in my heart. It didn’t have the whimsy of the other holidays, or the religious overtone. It was more tangible in my little eyes. It was something I could see, and something I could do. When I was a child I felt that America was all about helping out the little guy. That we who were so big and so caring would say "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door." I truly believed it. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that America wasn’t just another country, that we would always protect the innocent, provide for those who couldn’t provide for themselves, that we as a nation and as a people would always stand up to do the right thing, for the right reasons.
When I was eight I went in downtown husbands and fathers, they didn’t even know it. That most of those men on the video were never coming home. At the time when I thought about it, it just seemed surreal to me. Like it was another person, another life time.
Shannon came home in late June to spend the fourth with us. Our only real tradition was seeing the fireworks. This year Shannon wanted to relax and not travel anywhere so my dad, Shannon, and I went into the park behind our house. I held Shannon’s hand and we stood there and watched. I would sneak looks at his face to see how much he enjoyed it. It gave me great pleasure to see other people enjoy things. Especially for Shannon on the Fourth. I mean this was his holiday. How could he not enjoy it? At some point I noticed Shannon was crying. I didn’t understand why at all. So I asked him and he mumbled something like “I just don’t like fireworks.” I was about to ask why as he always liked them before but my dad stopped me. It took awhile to realize why he was crying. It reminded him of the rockets that destroyed the Bradley’s his friends were in, when it didn’t destroy his. It reminded him of the small arms fire that killed his sergeant. It reminded him of all the brothers that he watched die while he was helpless. He felt guilty that he lived while others perished. All for no reason.
The Fourth of July will always be right there in our backyard holding my brothers hand watching him cry like I’ve ever seen anyone cry before, watching the red, and blue and white shadow his face.
When I was eight I went in downtown husbands and fathers, they didn’t even know it. That most of those men on the video were never coming home. At the time when I thought about it, it just seemed surreal to me. Like it was another person, another life time.
Shannon came home in late June to spend the fourth with us. Our only real tradition was seeing the fireworks. This year Shannon wanted to relax and not travel anywhere so my dad, Shannon, and I went into the park behind our house. I held Shannon’s hand and we stood there and watched. I would sneak looks at his face to see how much he enjoyed it. It gave me great pleasure to see other people enjoy things. Especially for Shannon on the Fourth. I mean this was his holiday. How could he not enjoy it? At some point I noticed Shannon was crying. I didn’t understand why at all. So I asked him and he mumbled something like “I just don’t like fireworks.” I was about to ask why as he always liked them before but my dad stopped me. It took awhile to realize why he was crying. It reminded him of the rockets that destroyed the Bradley’s his friends were in, when it didn’t destroy his. It reminded him of the small arms fire that killed his sergeant. It reminded him of all the brothers that he watched die while he was helpless. He felt guilty that he lived while others perished. All for no reason.
The Fourth of July will always be right there in our backyard holding my brothers hand watching him cry like I’ve ever seen anyone cry before, watching the red, and blue and white shadow his face.