The red, white, and blue adorns my neighborhood, shielding the American people from the pain that lies outside of our vast nation. The flag is bold and beautiful, a home providing safety for those who admire it.

The flag embodies not only the bright claret blood and tear stained clothing, but also the beaming smiles sketched on the faces of reunited families.

The delicate rips at every edge of my baby blanket mitigate the fears of unknown as I immerse myself in its safety and drift off to sleep. The world is awake, booming with the fight of men cloaked in camouflage. Their muscles ache of pain while their hearts are battered with thoughts of their loved ones. A gun now exists in the arms of a soldier where he used to hold his wife, before she too, drifted off to sleep.

A flag sits framed on the mantel of my living room, showing only a triangular blue field of stars, merely a point in the endless line of memories. It presents the short life of an uncle, and so many more. The flag is bold and beautiful, like a book, its pages filled with love, loss, and longing.