when I entered the dining hall.
Nobody asked me what I was doing there.
Nobody questioned whether I belonged.
But that was not what mattered.
What mattered was that a young soldier had learned something that no manual could teach him.
That respect should not depend on someone’s age, rank, uniform, or history.
It should be there before you know any of those things.
When Ellen and I finally walked toward the parking lot, I stopped at the entrance and looked back one last time.
The photograph was visible above
the serving line.
Six young faces.
Six people who had once believed they had all the time in the world.
I touched the little brass pin on my coat.
“Thank you, Thomas,” I whispered.
My daughter heard me.
“Who are you talking to, Mom?”
I smiled.
“An old friend.”
She took my arm.
We walked out into the afternoon sunshine.
And for the first time in many years, I felt that perhaps the story I had carried for so long did not have to remain mine alone.
Because the truth
