Only other mothers who have lost a son or daughter in combat can ever fathom the pain and suffering produced. The death of my brother in 1969 sent my mother into a tailspin of despair that she has never recovered from. This simple woman could never comprehend the decisions made in Washington that sent her son to Vietnam. All she knew was that she would never be able to touch, talk to and about, nurture, or enjoy her son's life again. Like a shadow on a cloudy day, she could lose the pain for a short time, but like the shadow, the pain would always return. Vietnam is her cancer and there is no cure.

He was an only child from a very simple, blue-collar couple living in Houston, Texas. His parents lived in what I remember as a little gray-colored house. I saw them occasionally after he died, and I remember them looking gray as well. All these years my heart has been heavy with the memory of a simple American couple, whose only child—really all that they had in this life—was killed in a far away place. They were nothing special; he was nobody special. But they were three individuals deeply affected by that war.