THE LIGHTS ON LIBERTY


bring 'em home, bring 'em home.

One morning last week, I woke from a fitful sleep, turned on the television, and saw a news report about a young man -- local kid, proud soldier -- killed in the line of duty in Iraq. I took a shower, came downstairs, and glanced at a newspaper article about thirteen people killed -- including a family of four -- and thirty more wounded the day before in Baghdad. I drank a glass of orange juice, sat down at my desk, and, after checking my email and browsing a couple of news sites, stewed in the dark quiet of my computer room and began to write the week's wall of the dead post.

I heard footsteps creak overhead. I heard the hollow sound of my own heavy breathing. I put the computer to sleep and went upstairs to make sure Adam was awake.

Half an hour later, in the half-light of a gray, hazy morning, we were driving down Liberty Avenue, heading toward an orthodontist appointment and another date with a mouth full of metal. Adam was quiet in the back seat, still tired, always thinking, probably hoping we would hit every red light along the way. I was quiet in the front, still tired, always thinking, feeling sorry for him and knowing that if I could, I would gladly take the braces and the brackets and every last little bit of pain for him.

The line of cars slowed, then stopped. A long, sad trail of taillights stretched out before us. And I had just begun to feel the silence, the gentle stillness hanging in the car and in the day, when the solitary strumming of an acoustic guitar and the plaintive moan of Bruce Springsteen's voice came snaking out of the speakers.

If you love this land of the free
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home
Bring 'em back from overseas
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home

The lines curled into my ears and backed up into my brain, wrapped themselves around my heart and came out again through the corners of my eyes. The line of red lights on Liberty flickered, then blurred, then seemed to dissolve in a sudden sea as I began to cry.

It'll make the politicians sad, I know
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home
They wanna tangle with their foe
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home

I thought about President Bush, father of two daughters and no sons, who each day sends so many other sons and daughters off to fight in that hellfire of a desert country half a world a way. He says that he prays to his God, and I believe him, but in that moment, I could not be certain that he prays to mine. And I wondered if he has ever, sitting in traffic or on tarmac, in the back of an armored limousine or at the bustling heart of Air Force One, perhaps while listening to his own iPod, been moved so unexpectedly to tears, to cry, to weep, even simply to well up in wonder at the terrible thought of so many families and parents and children lost to his own lost cause.

They wanna test their grand theories
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home
With the blood of you and me
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home

Then I wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time this year, what it must be like to sit at home or at work or in traffic, to sit anywhere in the momentary stillness of your own aching heart, and wonder where your own son must be. Or what he must be doing. Or who he may be killing. And to wonder whether you will ever again see his beautiful face, or hear his lovely voice, or hold his precious body in your arms with a desperate sort of love and longing that lets him know you will let go because you must, not because you want.

We'll give no more brave young lives
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home
For the gleam in someone's eyes
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home

I wiped away another tear or two or maybe ten, hoping that Adam would not see, would not wonder, would not worry, even as I was never so glad to have him there to see, or wonder, or worry for me, so that I would not have to do so for him. I thought of Wendy and Ethan at home, in bed or in the kitchen or maybe brushing their teeth, soon to laugh and smile and walk to school and work, not to be seen nor kissed nor touched again for six or seven or maybe ten more hours, but still warm and sound and reasonably safe, unlike so many other wives and mothers and sons and brothers made expendable now.

The church bells will ring with joy
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home
To welcome our darlin' girls and boys
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home

I wondered what it must be like to be in command of all those girls and boys, all those frail and perishable bodies and souls, and to have to make decisions not about when to wake them up or get their braces or cut their hair, but when to risk their lives and bet their limbs and almost surely cause some of their deaths. I wondered how it must feel not to want to take their pain, but to know that you must give them much of your own. And I smiled, first with relief, then with sorrow, then with guilt, at the simple, silly care of filling Adam's mouth with metal when so many other mothers and fathers must every day worry about their sons' bodies being filled with it. Or buried in it.

If you love this land of the free
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home
Bring 'em back from overseas
Bring 'em home, bring 'em home

The long line of cars began to move again. A lurch, a slouch, then a slow, steady crawl. The red lights on Liberty were slowly turning green.

I asked Adam how he was doing. He said I’m okay, and sounded like he meant it. I wiped my eyes one last time, clearing my head and my heart and finally my vision, in time to pass by one church, then another. Their doors were closed. Their lights were off. Their bells were silent.

Posted: Thu - October 19, 2006 at 06:27 PM          

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