In a totally right brain way the idea of resurrection makes perfect sense on a morning like this. The mocking bird outside my window understands.
Yesterday I went to the national cemetary at Ft. Sam with my brother and sister to visit my father's grave. While Anne put flowers next to the simple marker, exactly like the thousands of others, Steven and I were reading the names of the recent dead. Most of them were veterans of WWII, who are now in their eighties and nineties, but many of Pop's neighbors were born in the fifties, younger than I am, and too many, those that said simply: Persian Gulf, barely twenty years ago. The flowers are a symbol of ressurection. Maybe the left brain really knows, but our other half will never surrender.
San Antonio is a place where it's impossible to ignore the war. When Dad was sick last year I spent a lot of time at Brook Army Medical Center, where I saw so many of the horribly wounded warriors, young men and women that looked like they should have been in my freshman comp. class. That doesn't make it to the news much. A lot of important things don't. But you know that.
What Is This Election About?
Geraldine Ferraro? Reverend Wright?
The puppet masters are at it again:
War heroes? Haircuts? Pant suits?
A dance macabre to elect McCain.
Typical white grandmas? Little flag pins?
These are things that deserve a mention
Rush Limbaugh? Call girls?
Anything to divert our attention.
Not the millions without health care.
Not the war. Not the depression
That most of us are already in:
The puppet masters are at it again.