I Saw a Man

By E.W. Richardson

I saw a man in the park today, sitting alone, under a tree, surrounded
by a serenity so peaceful and strong, even the wind's gusty play meekly respected
his tranquility. The man was writing in a book, whose cover was battered
and stained and though he sat some distance away, I could hear the scratch
of the pen...an oddly soothing sound...like a whisper of someone softly
singing a hymn...or reciting from a book of prayer. Once, he raised his
eyes from his work and in his eyes were anger and pain...and a hardness
of once having seen horrors not meant for the eyes of man...and I knew him
then...he is one of those remarkable men, who have looked the devil in the
eye and laughed, spit in that eye, and survived...only to be forgotten,
the sacrifice and contributions ignored or outright denied. Yet, there he
sits, peaceful and calm, enjoying the simplicity of the day...perhaps with
an understanding of how to open life's many doors, reserved for those, who
have fought our wars.