My heart breaks for our forgotten soldiers.

A man wandered the streets.  His face cracked and blistered from the blustering bitter arctic wind.   His beard and hair were unkempt and wild.   The tattered stocking cap on his head looked as though it would keep nothing warm.

I approached the man as he gathered trash from the streets.   He examined each piece that he picked up and put it in one of three bags that he had tied to an ancient belt.  Fishing through my pockets, I attempted to find something that would help the man out.   There was only spare change floating in a pile of paper receipts.  It was still more than the man had.

I handed the man the money, all that I had.   A flash of silver and copper caught my eye as the coins fell into his hands.   The blackened skin was hard, thick and cracked.   It looked as though he was wearing gloves made of armadillo.  A half a second of hesitation seemed to pass through the man’s eyes but the quickness of his hands defied his pride.

“I can’t take this,” the stranger said.”I want to work for my money.”

How sad I felt.  I did not want to offend this proud man, I simply wanted to help.  He was one of the many men that our country had sacrificed to the lords of war and then turned our backs on.   He was a soldier that had defended our freedom and protected our very lives.   This man was a hero – even now.  

“You already did the work,” I responded.   “You sacrificed your life to save mine.  I can never pay you enough.”

He looked at me.  I looked at him.  I said a silent thank you and moved on.  I knew that this proud man did not want charity.   He didn’t want me to see him humbled.   He just wanted to feel like a man again.   I only wish there was more I could do for him.

As I walked away my son asked me an innocent question.   “Who was that man Mom?”  I told him that the man was an American soldier.

My boy replied to me, “Aren’t our soldiers American heroes?   Is he homeless?  Did we forget him?”

Yes sweetie.   We forgot him.