Then there was the woman who lost two sons to that war in a far away jungled land.

One to a bullet fired from a never seen enemy snipers gun which pierced his heart.  he fell and died face down in bloodied sand.  He never quite knew why he was there and was puzzled even more by the actions of his brother, the one who didn't care.  Just at the moment he drew his last breath, with comrades returning fire at an unseen fear, he looked towards the setting sun, westward to the land he called home.  He couldn't speak and slowly exhaling, his eyes closed upon one silent, lonely tear.

They told her he was a hero, a proud son of liberty.  She got a folded flag and a telegram from someone she never knew who said her son had died so that all men could be free.  She thought about their words, the explanations were thin at the very least, but finally, she understood and agreed that what he had done was good and his death was not in vain and in his memory, she planted a tree.

The other to a billy club wielded by an officer of the peace, a man blinded by fear, who was never able to understand how Americans could demonstrate, desecrate and refuse to obey the orders of the Government and have such disrespect for the police.  The club crushed the fragile bones just above and in front of his left ear and as he fell to the officer's feet , his eyes turned southward to a far away land he called home.  He thought of the brother who would kill people in a jungled land and he wondered why God ever bothered to create such a man?  Just at the moment he drew his last breath, with comrades shouting "Peace" and "Stop the war", exhaling, he lowered his head into the pool of blood staining the steps of the courthouse door.  A loving comrade reached out and wiped away one silent, lonely tear.

They told her he was not responsible for his actions, but that "drugs" had destroyed his sense of right and wrong.  They gave her his few possessions bundled up in a pillow case tie-dyed and closed with a long since discarded sandal's thong.  She thought about their words, the explanations were thin at the very least, but, finally, she understood and disagreed.  What he had done was good.  He had died so that all men could be free and his death had not been in vain and in his memory, she planted a tree.

Then there was the little boy next door who loved the little girl with pig tails and a turned up nose.  They met every summer evening in the shade of the twin trees that grew so tall, so strong, in the back yard of the run down old house where that crazy lady lived.  Their love was stronger than their fear of her finding them together there, so they embraced and dreamed of tomorrow.   They never saw the sad old eyes behind the darkened window pane and just as she drew her last breath, she looked again toward the trees, wiped away one silent, lonely tear, slowly exhaling, she smiled and knew that after all her sons had not died in vain.

I.R. Know 1