Deb Lund ad lib

It feels too raw, too soon to write. It’s probably just as well that we couldn’t get online for a few days. Years of teaching this story of what people can do to each other didn’t prepare me for the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. Established in August 1955 to remember the victims of the bombing of Hiroshima — over 100,000 lives lost — the park and museum put faces and stories to the horrific history.

School children everywhere read and hear about Sadako. I’ve read both versions by Eleanor Coerr dozens of times, folded countless cranes, sang Fred Small’s song “Cranes Over Hiroshima” to years of students. But now I’ve looked at Sadako’s favorite shoes and matching bag, the cranes she folded, photos of her that won’t be found in pictures books.

And it’s not just her, of course. Artifacts, along with photos and names of their owners — a watch frozen in time, glasses, personal belongings. Metal and glass fused together from the heat.

Shin’s tricycle, once buried with 3 year old Shin, dug up by his father 40 years later…

The bits and pieces of people’s lives, corroded, left behind, their stories sealed. As we listened to our audio headsets, I found myself wanting to feel, and wanting to shut it out. Then came a simple entry — the only poem — and the barrier came down. Poetry. Words. The closest thing I know to those artifacts and glimpses of lives. These are stories that must be told.