. Or maybe i

humiliation. The grit of the ashes was

protest. My reflection in the shattered glass of a picture fra

Smashed furniture, torn photos, the stench of s

s, was an old wooden footlocker. It had belonged to my father. It wa

I undid the latches.

bons studded with white stars. The Medal of Honor. One was my father's, awarded posthumou

ed American flags. The burial fla

irl, lost in a sea of uniforms. A tall, kind-faced man, my father's best friend, had knelt down in

motion. "The United States Army does not forget its own. If you ever, ever need

years. It seemed like a lifetime ago, a chi

rk. At the Pentagon. I'd seen his

The legal system had failed me. The city had aban

ates Army does no

represented a different kind of law, a different k

the foo

, one I had hoped to put the ashes in before... before. I carefully, reverently, began to gat

oken cookie jar. I didn't even bother

the footlocker in one hand and the small urn