To the other people milling around, he looked just like one of them.  He was colored by the sun, a bronze that went skin deep. His hair was trimmed to just below his shoulder blades and held in place by a black leather strap. At odds with that were his blue eyes that could sparkle with his mother’s laughter.

He stood relaxed as the crowd dwindled to a calm few. His gaze read the plaques that told the story of a people slaughtered just because they were different and had pride in who they were. He thought of the stories told by his grandparents as they were told to them. History’s lessons forgotten by so many still sang in his soul.

His eyes shifted to take in the landscape. No marks scared the landscape to show the pain felt by strong women left to tend the home fires. No blood stained the vegetation to show where children lay scared and dying. There was nothing to show the torture that the elders had endured.

As he scanned the horizon the sunset coloring everything in hues of gold and red. The scene in front of him shifted just a bit. He watched as mothers tanned the hides of deer, stood beside the fires tending the stews, and weaving stories as they weaved blankets.

He saw the images of children playing games that would teach them to be as strong as their parents. They laughed and played free from the worry of men in army pants. He saw the delight cross their face as they saw the warriors return home.

The shift came again and this time he saw men in clean coats and bloodstained shirts. He saw the burned remains of homes and families. He saw the crazy celebration of the killing machine.

He knew the visions were a gift. He would use it to tell the story of the great people and the lesser men. He did not have the words in him that others used to pass the past on. Instead, he would use his gift. His mother’s blue eyes were not all she gave him and he would use what she had taught him to show others what had marred this sacred space.

He went home and started his task. The paint and canvas transformed into pictures of families together in both life and later in death. They became storyboards of horror, fear and pain. However, in the last painting he showed the spirit of a people in a way that the murderers never saw.

It showed many faces, some faded by the blood of newcomers. They were the faces of business, politics, teaching, and doctors. They were the faces of children who do not understand the ways of the past but will carry the dead’s promise into the future. They were the faces of a nation, of a people, of hope.