Last week Dani and I enjoyed lunch with a friend on a sunny Maxfield deck. I knew the friend to be a Viet Nam war veteran but had not considered what that meant until, lulled perhaps by the warm sun, flowing waters and the upcoming Memorial Day weekend, he described the difficulties he battled after the war. Describing life in a war zone, with munitions erupting near and far at random times of the night and day, safeguarding the unit during guard duty, witnessing enemy casualties and urgent evacs of wounded fellow soldiers left the veteran dazed even after 50 years. He seemed unsure that he would be able to attend the Memorial Day service, so I was happy to see him at Ives park during this morning’s moving service.
“I can’t believe how many attended!” he beamed afterwards. “I can’t believe it! They care! People really do care!” I wondered why he had not named the two friends from his unit who died, but even the question pained him. “I tried to name them during the last Memorial Day service, but I choked up, I couldn’t say the words.” Witnessing the crowd disperse, he smiled again, placed a hand on his chest and said: “This warms my heart.”
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