To the man in the black hat
walking the white dog
who passed me while I was taking a break
from running in the park,
my back to him as I stretched under the
canopy of green trees
To the man in the black baseball hat
whose gray hair hugged his tan neck
while I watched him walk away on the path
enjoying my freedom in the cool breeze
on this late day in spring
To the man in the black baseball hat
with the yellow letters that cradled the opening
on the back of his cap. Seven letters that seemed to call out to me,
as if to say: “This is what today is for. This man fought a war–maybe
two, maybe five. Maybe he is still fighting a war
–within–
so you can stand here and stretch in the afternoon sun
with all of your limbs, and no understanding of what it means to
stand on a battlefield–to risk your life for God and country.”
To the man in the black hat with the golden-yellow letters that spelled
V-E-T-E-R-A-N
“Thank you.” I wanted to say those words as I watched you walk by,
and I read the word on your cap. But I felt foolish, listening to my pop music
while I sought out hills to climb for the sake of climbing, and you walked down the path, perhaps off another battlefield in your mind.
“Thank you.”
I did not have the courage to say it then. But I say it now, to honor you, all of you
who so bravely served, and fought, and perhaps died, or lived to tell your tale, or to simply wear your
cap as you stroll through the park on THIS day, the day we call Memorial Day.
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