My wife works for DC’s Center of Military History in a huge underground warehouse (think the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark). She spends her days sifting through old guns, ammo and uniforms. In the last couple of week’s she’s played with Robert E. Lee’s cap and Hermann Goering’s jewel-encrusted wedding sword (I know).
Today she came home looking like she’d been hit by a truck. She told me that because her building is moving, her department has to go through every single box and re-catalog every single item in the army’s collection.
Today she heard muffled crying coming from a far corner. She followed the noise and found several coworkers kneeling over a wooden box, crying openly. This is especially strange because my wife works almost exclusively with hardened Vietnam veterans. One guy, who was high-ranking Special Forces (basically a real-life Rambo), had tears streaming down his cheeks, soaking his handlebar mustache.
As she approached, my wife found the box full of baby clothes. A torn pair of frilly socks. A bloodstained onesies reading “Tuesday” to help a mother manage the week’s laundry. A charred sling patterned with princesses.
She eventually found the box’s tag. It read:
“Infant Clothing | Flight 93 | 091101”
