We've all seen it; too many times I'm afraid... a small-town main street festooned with American flags and red, white and blue ribbons: a fallen soldier honored one last time by his hometown.
I didn't know how I'd feel as I found a parking space a few blocks off the main street of Benson, NC, a town close enough for me to visit on my lunch break. I made my way across the street, looking at the crowd lining the street: shopkeepers and store employees on the sidewalk, the police shutting down traffic, a drug store sign with the legend R I P CLINT MOORE A HERO, people holding flags, wearing eagle shirts and boonie hats... like I say, we've regrettably seen this more than a few times since 2003. I've wrung my hands, gotten mad, cursed the president and his cronies, and written my congressman(Bob Etheridge...Yay!) and Senators (Burr and Dole...Grrrr....).
However, this is the first time I'd been this close to a war I've railed against. I thought of myself at 27, the age Clint Moore was when he died on his second tour of Iraq on April 23rd, along with eight of his buddies.
As I waited for the procession, I thought of another life wasted by the folly, stubbornness and stupidity of a president I am finding it difficult to type the name of.
There were no speeches; what to say?
There was no band; what to celebrate?
Only the grim procession of police, military, the low, shaking rumble of the motorcycle-mounted "Patriot Guard Riders", followed by a few local dignitaries, the family, and then the Mercedes hearse. Even as the vehicle carrying Moore's broken body came closer, I still didn't know what I'd do when it got there. Then it did. I've never been in the military, so I raised my arm up in my best approximation of a salute, and then that wave came over me. You know the one; your throat closes up... you can't catch your breath... a throttled sound escaped my throat... and I cried... for Sgt. Moore, for my country, for the thousands fallen and the fallen yet to come.
As quickly as the hearse rolled down the street, my breathing returned to normal and I wiped a tear from each eye. I thought of all the families that would feel an eternal hurt, a hole, a loss so deep I can't imagine, forever, because of this war.
I crossed the street, got in my van, found Pearl Jam's "The Long Road" on my player, and headed back to work.
R
From the fools gold mouthpiece
The hollow horn plays wasted words