I sat in a quiet, isolated corner of the Atlanta airport earlier in the month, facing a large window with a view of Delta planes bathed in the late afternoon light.
As I read my magazine, employees from all over the terminal started gathering around me. When their chitchat grew louder, I blocked them out by focusing harder on each sentence on the page.
When I finally looked up minutes later, no one was talking any more. Staff and passengers stood with their hands over their hearts, looking out through the glass.
A group of men holding flags marched to the side of the Delta plane in front of me and stood at attention near a conveyor belt. They saluted as a white, coffin-sized box slowly moved down the ramp.
It took me a second to understand what was happening. But then I heard sniffling, and one woman began reciting the pledge of allegiance. One middle-aged man broke down in tears.
The moment snapped time into focus. And for a second I felt a truth I know intellectually, but rarely process—that these sites, though jarring to me, have become a regular occurrence during the last nine years.
At first I read the newspapers to follow the wars--to really live in the moment--and when those grew old I turned to books. In recent years, I wrote articles about soldiers and had the privilege of covering two military funerals – among the most heartbreaking assignments I’ve ever had.
But now that this chapter in American history is closing, I can’t help but wish I had paused to reflect more, taken in more information about Islam, learned more about the Armed Forces, or spent more time studying a map of Iraq or Afghanistan. When I talk to grandchildren about this period years from now, I want them to see me as a discerning witness during a fascinating time.
I’m not quite sure yet what influence the war has had on me, or society at large. But I do hope it’s had some effect. If it hasn’t, I’ll wonder whether we weren’t paying enough attention.
