Omaha

I encouraged my parents to stay in Paris for the majority of their week in France. Accordingly, we spent only one night outside the stuffed streets of Paris. We went to Normandy, to Bayeux, passing the majority of the daylight hours seeking the car rental office, baggage in tow. Well, the lucky ones had their baggage. I was on day three in France and day four in my jeans since my suitcase still lingered somewhere between Philadelphia and unanswered airport phone calls.

Our Rick Steves inspired WWII tour commenced at the windy cliffs of Arromanches. He suggested a 360 movie and museum tour to follow but January and a closed for the month notice suggested otherwise. At least we were unbothered by tourists.
At the precise moment we stepped into the cemetery boundaries above the Omaha Beach, it began to rain. Wind smacked thick cold drops against our unprotected bodies. Not knowing when we would next be in Normandy, we continued sloshing along the walk, laughing and whimpering, running from from tree to tree when Mom would let me onto the grass.
We made a small circle back to a pavilion at the head of the American cemetery. The rain slowed and the wind stopped. At the fading light, we listened as TAPS persuaded our country's flag from its post and into the careful hands of its keepers.
Quiet.

The tide below the cemetery followed the sun into the sea and we walked along the pools that were left behind.

I am endlessly grateful to the men and families who gave their futures for our present.
I pray that I will only ever have to imagine what it was like for them, their fathers, their brothers, and their sons
.