I remember one winter morning when I was 4 my mother telling me to put on my dress, we were going to the neighbor's house. As we walked along, I noticed that my mother was carrying a steaming casserole dish. I asked her what we were doing. She said that our neighbor's son had died and that we were taking some food to them. Since I had never known anybody that died, I was very curious.
When we got to the neighbor's house, I saw that the mother and father were seated on the sofa. The mother was weeping and the father, with tears streaming down his face, was doing his best to comfort her.
On a table, given a position of honor, was a folded flag and some sort of metal stars. I remember thinking that this was not a proper exchange. These people had given up their youngest son and all they got was a flag and a couple of stars?
I grew up with Viet Nam in my living room. Every evening at 6, Uncle Walty came on the TV giving me the latest update on the horrible war that seemed to go on forever. Yes, I was never a veteran, I never had to put my life on the line for my country, but I still wept from seeing the effects of what war could do. The knowledge that these dear men who died (for what?) would never see their family, or their loved ones again.
Viet Nam, for whatever reason, was a lost cause.
These dead men have their names on a memorial wall here in Kansas City and other places. Their families have their medals and a flag. I wonder if the families of these men still miss their sons, father, brothers. I wonder if they think that it was all worth it.