Our first evening there, we took a guided bus tour. In the luxury of a plush motor coach, we drove by the landmarks of the city. With countless, ageless stars illuminating our path, I thought, how incredible to realize that those same stars were shining on each of the momentous events we had experienced as a country. Each one guided us through to become a nation united.
We motored past the White House, the Capitol, the Supreme Court and each presidential monument. It was the year 2000, and the world was at peace, for all intents and purposes. Sure, there were skirmishes abroad, but there was nothing substantial threatening or impeding our freedom to be tourists in our own backyard of liberty.
It was peaceful riding through the streets of D.C. that summer evening. I was awed by the enormity of the city and the vastness of its purpose. And I was humbled by its history. The year 2000 had been designated the International Year for a Culture of Peace, and it felt good and right to be part of the world.
The bus stopped at our first hands-on spot, and we carefully walked down what I believed to be the path that would take us to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Hand in hand with my sons, I navigated the cobblestone walkway. Toward the bottom of the hill, my younger son ran ahead and then stopped dead in his tracks. Wide-eyed, he gazed at the life-size statues of soldiers in what seemed to be a boundless field. They were in camouflage, holding weapons, in the midst of battle. Their expressions were focused and frenetic, their stone-cold bodies no colder than the look the sculptor captured in their eyes.
The Korean War Veterans Memorial was dedicated in 1995, and built to honor Americans involved in that conflict. The count of 169,365 included those wounded in action or reported missing, more than 100,000 captured and more than 54,000 dead.
Leaning over the fence as far as he could, my son gently ran his hand over the granite slicker one soldier wore, and then over the soldier's gun. He was mesmerized, as only an innocent child can be. He ran back to me and said, "Mommy, I just touched war."
We retreated, and found our way to the path leading to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Long before you're near it, you are captured. The memorial's black granite reflective walls grace the horizon and loom up as you walk lower, toward its base. Even in the darkness, its mirrorlike surface reflects the surrounding trees and the solemn people looking for names. There are 58,191 names inscribed on the walls of the monument, which was dedicated in 1982.
We stood quietly and said a prayer. My son walked up and touched the wall, running his small hand over as many names as he could reach. He traced some with his finger, and then stood on tiptoes, stretching as far as he could, seemingly unwilling to miss even one. He touched them and they touched him.
"Mommy," he said. "Look, I found a name almost just like mine."
Up on the concourse, my son asked for money to buy a button from a veteran. I watched as he walked up to an aged soldier, tattooed and still obviously tattered by the memory of war. For a brief moment their hands touched, my son's unscathed by taunting memories and the vet's wrinkled and knotted, peeking out from a pair of fingerless knit gloves. The symbolism overwhelmed me.
We are now living in the wake of another war. My son's hands have grown to those of a man. They are sure and well formed, muscular and strong. In two years he will be of age to carry the nation's weapons of war. He will be old enough to carry the freedom of this great country on his back.
Just last week, reflecting on the 2,000th soldier killed in this latest war, my son asked me, "What type of monument do you think they will build for the soldiers who died in Iraq? Where will they carve their names? How will we remember them?" I couldn't answer.
There are 2,000 gone. I say we don't need one more death added to that already bloody foundation. Two thousand is already too many.
