So the Days Float Through My Eyes
Stripes. Three of them, side by side, blue, white and red. LeBeau tries not to think about them, but when he does he wonders at how something so simple could mean so much. Just glancing at the tricolour patch on his sleeve is enough to set off memories of a country that no longer exists save for in the hearts of its people. He remembers waking up each morning, looking out at the city and seeing the flag flying in the proud breeze that carried it with honour. A different flag now flies in its place, one which he is convinced the wind carries only out of spite. The true colours of France now fly on sleeves such as his, and he is proud to carry it. Yet now he cannot look at it without thinking of the thing which replaced it.