It’s almost hard to say. It’s almost the wrong thing to say: I’m grateful that so many gave their life for my freedom.
I know you probably didn’t want to go. And that if you did, being there quickly changed your mind. I understand that the “going” wasn’t heroism on your part. And that maybe the “being there” wasn’t either. But when you fought, when it came down to it, for whatever reason you fought; that is my freedom.
I can only imagine how scary it was. How slowly the realization that “this is real” penetrated your every move and thought. I understand that what I imagine multiplied by 10 and garnished with the worst scenes I can think of doesn’t even begin to come close to what you lived through, what you saw. What you came to know.
And if you want to yell and kick and curse at me — I know. And crying is OK too because it wasn’t easy seeing your friend like that. Yes, your wry smile says that that might be the understatement of the year.
I know.
But I have to selfishly point to me and mine, shake my head and say; “Not without you. This wouldn’t be but for you.”
I’m grateful for those through the payment of their lives have meant the liberation of those I love. Of my grandfather who walked for miles to bring back food to his children. Of my mother who waved her father goodbye only to have a gun pointed at her; “go inside!”. Of my father who saw the trains.
Thanks.
