Her tears fell, single, soundless, on the stone beneath her knees, weeping for her son. “A few good men” flickered in her mind. He was good, one of the few. He enlisted early, at seventeen. “The proud, the few, the Marines.” He was all of that and more. He didn’t even graduate before they called his number. He stood astute, his arm raised, his hand positioned in perfect salute, dressed in his blues. A visit home before deployment and a return in a simple pine box, days before his eighteenth birthday. Her tears fell for a life snuffed too soon.
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