When I was maybe 9 or 10, Memorial Day meant a chance to see real veterans shoot real guns in the park in Omro.
And if I was lucky, I got to grab some of the brass that fell to the grass from their World
War II rifles. But at that age, in my young mind, war was comic books where Sgt. Rock always won and only
the bad guys died.
But the bad guys aren’t the only ones who die.
And so I stood surrounded by white marble stones, each engraved with a name, a date, and a war.
At first glance, it’s a beautiful pattern of stones and flags. Until you walk the rows.
And read the names. And they are no longer rows of white marble stones. They are people. Some
have flowers next to them. Some just have dandelions. A car pulls in and in the distant I can hear someone
talking to his father as he puts flowers next to one of the white stones.
They are people.
But people. From so many wars. Father. Mother. Son. Daughter….
But also not forgotten if you walk past the stones and read the names.