The other day I was in the grocery store, waiting patiently in line for my turn to overpay, when I noticed the hat on the man in front of me. He was at least 5 years older than me, grey and weathered, worn down may be a better fraise. The hat was stained and beaten to within an inch of its life; a ball cap with one small faded decoration; the red, yellow and green stripes of a Vietnam veteran. We inched our way forward and his wife paid at the check out, he glanced back and noticed me. I looked into the old face a moment and couldn’t help myself, I had to say something. I reached out my hand and said, “I know its forty years late but, welcome home and thanks.” He looked a little surprised and it took a moment for him to gather his thoughts. “Thanks” he said. “you’re the first.” They gathered their things and left. Feeling a little embarrassed I continued with my checkout; the cashier looked at me and said, “That was nice, my dad served in Vietnam and it was hard on him. Now my husband is in the middle east.” We chatted a bit and I left to put my things away in the kitchen.
Why do we wait so long? Why do we avoid them? Their here, all around us, some living on the street, broken souls also asking why. Are we embarrassed by how we treated them, and now try to pretend they don’t exist? I don’t have the answers, only questions.
They did their time, we should thank them for it and give them some peace.
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