where the writers are
WWII Wedding

In a trunk filled with mothballs lies the somewhat-shredded woolen flag that flew over my father’s minesweeper while it cruised the Straits of Iwo Jima.  My mother’s bridal suit and my father’s navy blues are there too, sandwiched along with the flag.  I will keep the uniform and the suit along with the black and white Kodak snapshot and the letters and the inherited memories.  I would donate the flag to the Smithsonian, but it seems they have too many already.  Too many battle flags.