April 1997							May 17, 1997
				28	29	30
May 1997
1	2	3	4	5	6	7
8	9	10	11	12	13	14
15	16	17	18	19	20	21
22	23	24	25	26	27	28
29	30	31
June 1997
1	2	3	4	5	6	7
8	9	10	11	12	13	14
15	16	17	18	19	20	21
22	23	24	25	26	27	28
29	30
July 1997
1	2	3	4	5	6	7
8	9	10	11	12	13	14
15	16	17	18	19	20	21
22	23	24	25	26	27	28
29	30	31
August 1997
1	2	3	4	5	6	7
8	9	10	11	12	13	14
15	16	17	18	19	20	21
22	23	24	25	26	27	28
29
							They asked, Do you know what it means to be American? I told them, Yes, and talked principles, rights, the Constitution, and didn't say I'd stepped through the ruins of Rüsselsheim, been startled in my uniform by the click click of GI's taking pictures of their American wives posing in the rubble, cocked smiles, high heels shining, breasts jutting out against a fire-bombed wall. And on the train to Frankfurt I held a lavender handkerchief under my nose. The cars were crowded, and no one seemed surprised that coats don't cover grief so immense it stinks.