The boots
It's been two weeks. One morning at Annual Conference in Charleston, I helped set up the American Friends Service Committee "Eyes Wide Open" exhibit. 865 pairs of boots when they arrived, later that day they became 868. One pair for every American Serviceperson killed in Iraq. A field of boots lined up on a plaza. I could weep. I placed Virginia boots first, then West Virginia and Utah. Texas, homeland of the leader of this country, Texas, with more boots than the other states (and coincidentally, more poverty) I placed next. Who was I as I carefully lined up each boot? Stranger? Fellow citizen? No. Mother. And the truth is, I did weep as I placed the boots, and thought about the names tagged on them. That night, the plaza awash in candlelight, we walked among the boots, silent, stopping to read the names, the ages, praying. And by today as they move to Boston, they'll have added 33 more pairs. Will it end?
It's been two weeks. One morning at Annual Conference in Charleston, I helped set up the American Friends Service Committee "Eyes Wide Open" exhibit. 865 pairs of boots when they arrived, later that day they became 868. One pair for every American Serviceperson killed in Iraq. A field of boots lined up on a plaza. I could weep. I placed Virginia boots first, then West Virginia and Utah. Texas, homeland of the leader of this country, Texas, with more boots than the other states (and coincidentally, more poverty) I placed next. Who was I as I carefully lined up each boot? Stranger? Fellow citizen? No. Mother. And the truth is, I did weep as I placed the boots, and thought about the names tagged on them. That night, the plaza awash in candlelight, we walked among the boots, silent, stopping to read the names, the ages, praying. And by today as they move to Boston, they'll have added 33 more pairs. Will it end?
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