Coming home

I was on the subway last night when something strange happened. I can't tell you what city or country, leave that to your imagination.

Slowly the subway came to a stop and as the doors slide open, he slid in. He was tall, six feet at least, maybe taller. His brown hair stood up in many directions. He wore an olive drab battle dress uniform; a garrison cap clung tightly in his left hand. In his right hand, he held a strap as he was carrying a canvas duffel bag--the same color as his uniform. It appeared heavy because he wobbled to the seat directly across from me.

He had huge, dark circles under his eyes and he avoided my curious stare. It was as if he was just now, coming home from war. I imagined him tired and weary from his long journey home, and I wondered. Why hadn't he arrived before now? One lone tear trickled down his gray, gaunt face dropping into his lap. I stared intently at the wet spot it created, and I felt the urge to offer him a tissue. I suppressed it, and at that moment, the subway came to a stop and he rose and exited while I watched in awe.

Don't forget the men and women that gave their lives, so we can continue to live in peace.

As for my soldier, he is still making his way home. If you spot him let him continue on his way, the journey is long, and I know one day he will make it home.