(Cross-posted at My Left Wing)
(Diarist's note: I originally posted this about a week-and-a-half ago, when the inspiration first hit, but it became clear to me a few days ago that today was the right day to post it.)
Take a look at these faces. Sit with them for a moment. Then realize that none of them will ever see the light of day again, nor will their loved ones look upon these faces in this world:
As of this writing, nearly 2,500 American troops have been killed in Iraq. Every one of those killed was a son, daughter, father, mother, sister, brother, uncle, aunt, niece, nephew or loved one. Some of their photos are shown here, in the boxes.
None of them ever again will see Shakespeare's "darling buds of May". But their eternal summers shall not fade in the hearts and memories of those who loved them.
Sonnet 18
- by William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Somewhere in Iraq - a 19-year-old boy rides in a Humvee down hostile streets, remembering May a year ago, when he was goofing off in class in his last few weeks before graduating high school.
.
.
.
.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Somewhere in Wisconsin - a harried mother carries her crying baby to the front window and pulls the curtain aside to see two young men in dress uniform - strangers to her - coming up her walk.
.
.
.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
Somewhere in Iraq - a father of three girls walks warily down a deserted street in al-Anbar province, the sound of a child crying inside one of the buildings reminding him of his youngest daughter, born eighteen months ago when he was home on leave from his second tour.
.
.
.
.
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
Somewhere in Florida - a sister holds a photo of her brother and wipes the tears from her eyes.
.
.
.
.
.
.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Somewhere in Iraq - a Black Hawk helicopter flies low over the city with its load of medical supplies, on a flight the pilot has made dozens of times; she does not know whether an RPG is aimed at her at this moment.
.
.
.
.
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
Somewhere in California - an elderly mother and father rock quietly on a porch swing, both silent. The silence is heavy with a sound they both know can never come now - the sound of a phone ringing with a call from their only son.
.
.
.
.
.
.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Somewhere in Iraq -
the darling buds of May are blooming.
.
I'm not sure why I felt I needed to put together this diary. My daughter was working on a class project for which she had to choose a short poem to memorize, and in helping her find one I thought of this classic sonnet. I hadn't read it in a while, and couldn't remember all the lines, but as I re-read it with fresh eyes, and in the context of all that is going on in the world, I found tears welling up.
As more and more people die in a war, their stories get lost in the number of casualties - the number itself becomes the story. This diary doesn't purport to represent all of the victims of the war - there are clearly far more Iraqis who have been killed than Americans, not to mention other coalition troops as well - but simply to give pause to the reader, to allow for reflection and grieving.
As I was putting this together, Dburns published a diary that included a passage that I found apropos, and very moving. It is an excerpt of an e-mail written by veteran war correspondent Joe Galloway, and it reminds us of the cost of war:
i could wish that in january of this year i had not stood in a garbage-strewn pit, in deep mud, and watched soldiers tear apart the wreckage of a kiowa warrior [helicopter] shot down just minutes before and tenderly remove the barely alive body of WO Kyle Jackson and the lifeless body of his fellow pilot. they died flying overhead cover for a little three-vehicle Stryker patrol with which I was riding at the time. i could wish that Jackson's widow Betsy had not found, among the possessions of her late husband, a copy of my book, carefully earmarked at a chapter titled Brave Aviators, which Kyle was reading at the time of his death. That she had not enclosed a photo of her husband, herself and a 3 year old baby girl. those things i received in the mail yesterday and they brought back the tears that i wept standing there in that pit, feeling the same shards in my heart that I felt the first time i looked into the face of a fallen american soldier 41 years ago on a barren hill in Quang Ngai Province in another time, another war. someone once asked me if i had learned anything from going to war so many times. my reply: yes, i learned how to cry. Jg
Thanks for stopping by.
Peace