A Memorial of Wood and Bubbles.
By eduardo cervantes
29 May 2007
The bubbles came from nowhere, floating up and around like some memory long forgotten. I walked towards them and as I got closer I felt myself skipping a step, like a lover about to see his heart's desire, the closer I got the faster I moved. I got to the top of the stairs and seen a man at the bottom lifting his magic wand and enchanting the children and all walking by. I took this in as I noticed an small ocean of white crosses and coffins with the american flag draped upon them. It was like stepping into some type of surreal experience ala alice in wonderland as I wondered what was going on. I edged closer to the bubble man and seen the stands to my right, all lined with photographs of those who had died and those who had returned wounded, permanently scarred for life. I was overcome with emotion as the cool breeze kicked up and began to dry the big salty tears rolling down my cheeks. The blood and carnage, the stubs where limbs once were, the red stained bandages, the rows and rows of faces that are no longer with us, was just too much. I could not remember when I felt more american nor a bigger sense of community than standing on the beach with a dozen strangers looking at the mess our government chooses to censor. Eventually, a gentlemen asked for volunteers to take back the coffins. He assured us they were light and merely a box to hold up the flag. The eighteen represented the number of soldiers who died this week and a lady with her daughter had dropped by randomly and decided to come every sunday to help. A elderly man with a bouquet of flowers seemed to be desperately searching for something out there in the sand, what, I'm not sure, but the sorrow in his eyes was making him stick out in the pool of crosses. I was glad I got there when I did.
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