Friday night, I walked with my love to the ocean, where we found ourselves faced with a statue of the Virgin Mary, studded with candles. A small clipping at center indicated the cause: the faces and names of a thousand American soldiers who have died in Iraq since this last war began.
The wind whipped the flames into a frenzy, and only a handful of candles remained lit. We stood without speaking, and finally in a silent concord, we each took candles and lighters and began to light the dead flames. We moved like shadows around the statue and through the grass, and people would pass, noting the memorial and murmur thanks, or prayers. For twenty minutes we would dance, setting the candles and lighters back down on the base ledge of the Virgin Mary, then, finding more dead candles we had missed, again gather up our flames and re-light the fires.
Whomever had built the memorial left it that others could easily keep it burning. We felt like the changing of the guard, melting back into the night as we came.
On the way home we passed yet another dance, this one marked in blood on the sidewalk. Several young men were gesturing excitedly at the ground: "That's not ketchup!" "No, that's definitely blood, man." "He must've broke his nose!"
Footsteps circled eachother on the splattered sidewalk, the diary of an angry scuffle maybe an hour earlier. The pavement thick with red, drops trailing off in the distance from the departure of the wounded.
The night was filled with sirens, footnotes to the little wars taking place all over.
Posted by Olga at September 13, 2004 01:20 PM