His long, angular brown face is crowned with a neatly groomed shock of closely cropped white hair. Pinned to the collar of his yellow windbreaker is the eagle device of a full-bird Army colonel. Over his heart is an american flag pin and a miniature silver star medal.
The sofa on which he sits is too low for his height, and his lanky legs with bent knees are splayed outward in front of him. Cream colored argyle socks complement his spit shined soft brown oxfords.
In the lobby of the Lake City V.A. Medical Center, sits a huge flat-screened television. Gathered around are dozens of people. Some are medical and janitorial staff, others are patients with canes, wheelchairs and walkers. All are transfixed by the crisp image broadcasting from the steps of the United States capitol to the world.
It is solemnly quiet. The sound of the automatic door sliding open and closed is the only external distraction. All eyes are riveted on the TV.
On the screen is a handsome young African-American man, his right hand raised and his left hand resting on Abraham Lincoln’s personal bible.
The old warrior on the sofa buries his face in his knobby arthritic hands and quietly sobs. He reaches over to me, sitting in the arm chair to his right, takes my hand and cups it is both of his. They feel like weather beaten leather. He squeezes my hand and leans closer.
“Eighty-one years,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “Eighty-one years I fought for this…I prayed for this day”
I clasp his hands firmly, look at him through tearful eyes and we sit there, two veterans weeping.
Mission accomplished, Colonel.
January 20, 2009
12:15 PM
