A grandmother shares her wartime thoughts

I'm a grandmother of 11, and recently the perils that plague young military people have occupied a dominant place in my mind and heart, which prompted me to write this piece. I read the piece to my writing group, and they encouraged me to submit it to you, since they felt that it served as a bridge among all political viewpoints. After all, who would claim to be anti-grandchild?

They also felt that it had humanitarian appeal:

Striking the long match I hold it to the logs in the fireplace, watching as the flames dance, the dry wood crackles and the smell of pine brings memories of the tall trees in the mountains of Colorado.

Snuggling into my Eames chair, I wrap my fleece throw tight around me and take a sip of steaming tea. The translucent bone china cup, decorated with red and pink roses, had belonged to my mother, used only on very special occasions. Using the cup makes it a special occasion for me, and as I breathe in the vapors I can smell the mint.

Reaching for my book I glance at the window, and I am mesmerized by the drops of rain clinging to the glass and rolling down like the tears on the cheeks of mothers who have lost children in the wars. We fuss over our babies, encouraging them to eat healthy to grow big and strong; "Don't talk to strangers," we admonish; study hard to have a bright future.

We change their diapers, hold their hands and walk them to school, teach them to drive and hand them the car keys, and then sometimes we are forced to send them off to war, hoping that they will come walking back to us in one piece and not in a flag-draped coffin. I watch television, and I see the maimed, just babies really, some barely old enough to shave, no longer able to play football, feed themselves or even think.

Never to know the love of a mate or experience the joy of children. Often the ones whose minds are clear suffer the nightmares of what they have seen or the ravages of drugs they depend on to forget what they have seen.

I worry about by grandsons, Ari, Sam and Emanuel, and the pain in my heart is piercing at the thought of them going into battle. I pray for my grandson Dave, stationed in Sicily, that he not be deployed to Iraq. I cry for my grandson Noah, just 12, who worries now about having to serve in the military when he is grown. I worry about the children and their mothers I don't even know. I can't begin to think about my granddaughters.

Piercing eyes and young serious faces stare at me from the obituary page as I drink my morning coffee.

I open my book, the words are swimming. Life goes on.
Lois Hamlish
Westlake Village