The old blind man down the road is dying, he is kind and good-hearted, and the neighbors all know his name. They say that after the war in Vietnam, his Country he would not blame.
Family and friends all gathered around him in his final hour. I watched as people would come and go, their hands full of food and flowers.
His daughter arrived, asking me to thank the neighbors for what they had done. Then she tells me that the old man is holding on to life, waiting for his Grandson.
Her eyes filled with tears; you see, my son is in Afghanistan, and we
have not seen him for a year. My father
was in the military, a pilot in Vietnam; he came home, and for that, we were
all blessed. The medals on his walls are
evidence of him being the best.
We had only spoken for a moment when the sound of sirens filled the air; it gave us a scare. The parade of cars pulled up close, doors opened; uniform men stepped out, all with a military flare.
Behind them walked a young man straight and tall, wearing his Air Force Blues, said it all. They say that he went to his grandfather's bedside, took his hand, and gave him a small box along with a sharp salute. The young man was proud of his grandfather; this was his last tribute.
In the box were the medals he had been given in Iraq and Afghanistan,
"These are for you, Papa, and thank you for teaching me to be a
man." They buried him in that
sacred place called Arlington, his job as a son, brother, father, Grandfather,
and the service to his Country, at last, was done.