Early in the morning, the count begins. Gary Davis takes the stiff plastic, sets it in a frame, cuts. A tombstone shape emerges. And then another.
Four-thousand-two-hundred-and-sixty-four. Four-thousand-two-hundred-and-sixty-five. Four-thousand-two-hundred-and-sixty-six.
Monday at dawn, Davis and about 40 others will place those symbolic tombstones in perfect rows on the lawn near the Peace Arch in Blaine. For the past six years, the one-day Arlington Northwest Memorial has been a symbol of the costs of the war in Iraq, each tombstone representing a fallen U.S. soldier.
Because the soldiers continue to die, Davis keeps making tombstones. In his open-air workshop at the end of a long winding road east of Duvall, curtains of rain fall as he works. Cutting. Stacking.
Four-thousand-two-hundred-and-sixty-four. Four-thousand-two-hundred-and-sixty-five. Four-thousand-two-hundred-and-sixty-six.
Monday at dawn, Davis and about 40 others will place those symbolic tombstones in perfect rows on the lawn near the Peace Arch in Blaine. For the past six years, the one-day Arlington Northwest Memorial has been a symbol of the costs of the war in Iraq, each tombstone representing a fallen U.S. soldier.
Because the soldiers continue to die, Davis keeps making tombstones. In his open-air workshop at the end of a long winding road east of Duvall, curtains of rain fall as he works. Cutting. Stacking.
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