I am not patriotic. I don't believe in patriotism. There are very few things to which I pledge blind allegiance. Some of those things are represented by actual living people, some of them are represented by special books, some are even represented by a vague floating notion that nudges me ever so gently toward Grace. But none of them are represented by flags.
And yet, on a day like today, on in fact *this* day, it's all I can do to keep myself from jumping down and kissing the ground and belting out "God Bless America" (and brother I can hit the roof).
A beautiful Southern California day, with all the things I love deep inside my warm embrace, catching the wave that takes us to shore and deposits us comfortably on the cliff at sunset with the wind caressing our wet hair. A hazy back-of-the-El-Camino hug.
And I think of my father, on beach somewhere in the Pacific, beaten down and battle weary and half-exhausted with Malaria, wiping things off his helmet that wouldn't be permitted in an open casket. I think of him choosing (at an age when I was choosing between Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper) to try to stay alive, maybe without even knowing why. Maybe just discovering then and there that he was, in fact, a fighter. Realizing this, of course, only after he had knocked that other motherfucker to the ground.
And then I think: Ok, yes. Yes. There will always be fighting and dying. There will be always be those who protect and those who are protected.
There will always be Fathers and Sons.
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