Dear Readers,
The last few days I have been filled with a great longing for the American Flag, just to see it waving in the wind, the sun shining upon it on the 4th of July, remembering all those school days we pledged our allegiance, and the girl scout flag ceremonies, the cub scouts saluting the colors on pack night, streams of red and white stripes waving along sidewalks on Memorial Day, the flag wrapped around a war protestor somewhere in my childhood. How many times I dressed my children in stars and stripes for the 4th of July parade, or the flag stickers and t-shirts and ribbons decorating party hats on Lincolon's birthday, now all those moments stand out as a symbol of the country I love and the freedom it offers. And more. I remember the flag, new and bold, folded neatly and placed in my mother's arms as my father's body was lowered into the ground on a dreary November day. My father came upon the shores of Normandy in WWII the second day of the invasion. I have such a yearning to display the American flag, but of course, that is illegal here. When I go home this summer, I intend to get an American flag to hang somewhere inside our villa where I can be proud of who I am.
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