Texas Attempted: Dead before home

Arlington Cemetery. No tears this time. Perhaps it is too much, to see the row upon countless row of headstones, like snowflakes on the ground. Were I to spy upon the host of angels would it be as this: too many stories to tell, too much beauty to be contained in so small a form? Too much.

And that same phrase occurs again as our guide points through the window, 'Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking at the price of freedom.'

The white haze streaks my vision, a wash of trauma.

It grows worse. We pass the nineteen ghosts of the Korean Memorial, stone soldiers creeping through the night beside the words: "Freedom is not Free". And then the Vietnam Memorial, cut into the hillside with a slope that takes us down past an ever-expanding wall of names. So many, name after name, becoming a blur of letters. Everything reduced to words, the harness of remembrance. And as a writer I must hold these words and carry them forth. These cuts and marks that make us more than beasts.

At the bottom, where the wall is highest, there is a veteran, a gunnery sergeant. He ran ahead into enemy lines, deep in the jungle, and ordered the artillery to fire upon his position, to ensure the enemy were hit. He tells me he loves me and would die for me. It is strange to be told such a thing. Frightening.

And then, on the 22nd block of names, I find what I was not looking for: "David J. Corcoran"

These pieces of me - soldiers and artists. What ends we are driven to; and where might this spirit take me? With a last nod to the statue of Lincoln we head home through the electric cityscape.

I feel my Washington episode was thin on anecdotes. I guess there comes a time when the pain stops being funny. But don't worry, Readers, I'm flying home tomorrow - I'm sure something will go wrong. Hope for a plane crash - it would be a great finale. Like Washington choking.