Across the road, in a small gathering place, elementary children sat, in woods conjuring, fantastic worlds, beyond knowing.

While sitting on logs, heroes pretended, with protecting swords, saving the weak.

One morning, a kindergarten girl, stole in the gathering place, imagining pretended fire, occupied logs, in a summit of conversations.

Realizing her solitude, imagining hands reached, the sky dissolving in-between treetops: a confluence of man and nature.

A broken thought interrupted: Why is it so hard to tell the truth?

Trees answered, understanding, beyond a single moment, representing all moments, as witnesses of harm: nothingness is easier.

Senseless harms, let houses burn, skies smoking war, or oceans disintegrate.

The winds howl, shook branches, pointing to bystanders, with closed eyes, shielding fear, then, returning to circles, around fires, killing all things, outside the circle.

In the clearing across the road, in the small gathering place, children sit in woods, conjuring fantastic worlds beyond knowing.

Sitting on logs around a pretended fire, planning futures, pretend swords, protect damsels in distress: heroes saving the endangered and weak.

It’s an honor to be pinned.

Salutes make my gold bar shine. Don’t ya think?

It’s bittersweet though. . . this moment.

Do you like my ribbon? It has a story in it. A bittersweet chronicle. A marine’s moment . . . cherishing life . . . protected by the man’s unselfish act. Life’s more important than self-interest.

The place I rest is with the living. . . but it mostly means people have died.

Can you see my colors clearly? Their symbolism? Red for valor – I know it usually means blood, but I hate it when people say that red is a violent symbol – blood’s a natural element – part of the human condition . . . for me it represents beauty in powerful and courageous acts. Extraordinary heroism against an armed enemy force. When people get all up into it’s political meaning . . . they steal its true value.

My white . . . faith and purity . . . always a favorite . . . but I question whether anything can really be that pure. I suppose giving a life for a life is a kinda pure love. The ultimate selflessness.

But then people take the blue and use that as a means to an end . . . using it as some political tool to defend a political view debunks my value. Blue lives . . . black lives . . . brown or yellow lives representing lived lives . . . yes . . . things endured . . . but all that steels my ribbon’s reminder of the courage and valor that I represent, and symbolize…a saved life.

My cross, held by these ribbons, represents that act of protecting against an enemy of life. Protecting against those in our global community that live to hate and hate to love all equal. Resting on this chest of bravery and determination is my greatest honor. This person protects us from hateful actors.

I represent what’s best in a person because this man . . . or woman . . . without thought took action. A selfless headstrong action into danger.

It saddens me when people throw us away. Or stomp on us as if trying to blot out the actions of madmen. Saving a life in wartime is not a symbol of hate.

My ribbon is not political. It represents sacrifice. Honoring a moment of selflessness. A son . . . lost . . . a daughter . . . lost. The defense of a greater good.

You see me . . . now do you understand me?