June 6, 2014: Normandy, France
I am an American.
I am a Soldier.
I walk on green grass among rows and countless rows of crosses
white and stone.
Most have a name,
All have a soul.
One catches my eye,
It is the same as the others
but different
"An American Soldier, Known Only To God"
My brother.
I drop to one knee
To pray
And cry.
My tears fall to the earth as did his blood,
As did all of their blood.
I have stood on the joy-filled streets of French towns like Ranville and Sainte Mere-Eglise,
I have walked the now serene shores of Utah and Omaha Beaches,
I have basked in the sun of the French countryside,
I have seen the graves of British, Canadian, American, French,
and German.
And I cry.
My tears are of sorrow,
of loss,
of violence,
of War.
My tears are of joy,
of celebration,
of liberty,
of Peace.
My hand reaches out to touch the cross.
I am compelled,
But I pause,
I cannot,
But I must.
Slowly,
I must,
Further,
I must,
It will be too much,
I must,
Then
contact.
...
The cross is warm.
Its warmth is the energy of thousands of souls whose country no longer matters,
And I have created a bridge, a connection,
To my own.
I take some measure of their pain,
It flows into my body.
I give as much love in exchange
that I have received from the people of France.
They have not forgotten.
I will not forget.
