The mother reached down
into the out stretched arms
of the dark, curly haired little boy.
So moved by the image,
so universal in it’s scope,
(was I in Korea, Iraq or Iran,
Lebanon, Israel or Sudan?)
I felt a lump well up in my throat.
“Parents everywhere
love their children, don’t they?”
I said to my husband
as we drove through
the streets of Traverse City.
“Of course they do,” he replied
“Then how can we kill them
with machine guns and bombs
and not be torn apart by guilt and grief?”
“Collateral damage,” he said.
“We call them collateral damage.
We make them non-persons.
It happens in every war.
Look at how the Nazis’ referred to the Jews.”
“It’s wrong,” I replied.
“Every human being has value.
Every person should be counted
and their death mourned.
Everyone is loved by someone.
We were all once innocent little kids
reaching up to our moms.”
“I know,” he said.
I spent the next day painting flowers.
