What if the boys of Pointe du Hoc did not climb?
What if the The Flag was never raised above Mount Suribachi?
Near my iMac, I have two glass vials filled with dirty sand from two old forgotten shores, half a world apart. Inconspicuously they hide behind loud and shiny technological miracles of man’s modern innovations, of man’s progress, of man’s hubris. Unassumingly, these tiny bottles go unnoticed from day to day, from dawn to dusk, from dust to dust.
But today I see them…
What if my eyes could be a microscope for a moment? What if I could examine every speck as if it were a rock in my hand? Would I see faded blood baked into its bed? Would I see the salt of sweat still crusted on the edge? Would I see tear stains fallen from the courageous facing the abyss of fear?
Normandy in early June is beautiful. I now stand above 9,387 soldiers buried under more of the same sand; staked by endless rows of David’s Shield and The Cross. Why did they do it? Why am I allowed to drink deeply from the wells they dug? It does not seem fair that I can only offer to them my gratitude. What if every young and old American could stand inside this sanctuary, look upward over the graves to see Old Glory honoring the fallen?
