Mothers comfort others, knowing sons died doing their duty
An icy wind howled up Fourth Street on Thursday before the annual Veterans Day Parade. Two women wearing identical white sweatshirts with embroidered gold stars huddled against the chill.
ROTC members and retired military personnel were only beginning to assemble for the parade, touted as the largest of its kind in the West. The flags were not yet unfurled, but there would be no shortage of patriotism.
On the corner of Fourth and Hoover Avenue, Gold Star mothers Joy Marsico and Carol Fabbri prepared for the parade. I interrupted them while they were talking about their only sons. The mothers’ presence in the parade wouldn’t be the loudest or most recognizable, but their gold stars meant they had lost sons in the war. Instead of becoming lost in their grief, they appeared to have pushed through the pain no parent should know.
Marsico explained the state and national Gold Star organizations reach out to families of fallen soldiers. They often arrive shortly after the casualty officer delivers the devastating news. They try to provide comfort to the shattered families.
They had jobs, families, and full lives before the deaths of their sons, but I got the impression their focus has shifted now that they are in the Gold Star ranks.
Marsico’s son, Marine Lance Cpl. Raul Bravo, was killed on March 3, 2007, a day after his tour of duty had been extended, while fighting in Iraq’s Anbar province. He was 21.
Fabbri’s son, Army Pfc. Daniel Guastaferro, died in Anbar province on Jan. 7, 2005, two days after his 27th birthday.
If the mothers are bitter, they didn’t show it. Instead, they told me about their sons’ devotion to duty.
Marsico said, “When I, or anybody, would ask him, ‘Why are you going? You’re an only son. You don’t have to do this. Why do you put yourself in harm’s way?’ He would look at you like you’re crazy and say, ‘It’s my duty.’ ”
“That’s right,” Fabbri said. “Danny dropped out of school to join. He just felt that it was his obligation. He said to me right after he was sworn in, in December of ’03, he came home for Christmas. He said, ‘Ma, you know my choice may cause you a lot of pain.’ I said, ‘I’d rather you do something that you really want to do than watch you just miserable.’ And he really wanted to join the military. He knew what might happen.”
When the worst happened, the mothers faced a challenge of finding a way to continue living.
“Boy, how that has come around full circle because, yeah, I was a mess in the beginning, and every day we have our moments; but it became clear to me very early on that this is my duty,” Marsico said, her voice upbeat and energetic. “So we go to the funerals, as many as we can. Who knows better what they’re going through but us?
“Families, fathers, brothers, sisters for the most part seem to move forward with their lives. They go right back to work. They’re moving forward, and they seem to be OK. And we feel like we’ve been left behind. It’s utter devastation. Our lives are never the same, but by the same token we’re totally blessed. Our sons were the lucky ones, and we’re the blessed moms because they didn’t suffer and it was fast.”
I was left to wonder if what I heard was the whole truth, or the story mothers must tell in order to keep living.
Their sons were gone, lost in a distant place during a controversial war that smolders and flares up year after year.
Gone forever, but always on their mothers’ minds.
John L. Smith’s column appears Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. E-mail him at Smith@reviewjournal.com or call (702) 383-0295. He also blogs at lvrj.com/blogs/smith.
