I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask,
“Mother, what was war?”
Sammy Marvel was killed July of 1864 during the battle of Atlanta. His little brother, a drummer boy, marched on to the sea with Sherman’s army and lived to be an old man. Sammy’s uncle and cousins fought in the same battle—in the Confederate Army.
All Sammy’s mother had left of her son was this fading photo, his school books and a button off of his uniform. For the rest of her life, she sat by a window looking up the road—waiting for him to come home.
I have nothing profound to say about war except that it amazes me that people cannot see how a conflict could have been avoided until many years after it is over and the damage is done. What ever happened to the concept of learning from past mistakes?