I was riding home from a memorial service when I noticed him—a man in a wheelchair on the shoulder of Route 47, a small gray tent set up behind him. Cars rushed past while he sat quietly, a cardboard sign resting on his lap that simply asked for help.
For a moment, I almost kept going. I told myself the usual things, the excuses people make when they feel overwhelmed and unsure. But then I saw the hat on his head, the one identifying him as a veteran, and something inside me shifted. I slowed down, turned around, and pulled over.
As I approached, his face came into focus—tired, lined by age, and carrying a mix of worry and dignity. Then something familiar washed over me, a memory I hadn’t expected. When I reached him, my voice shook as I asked if he was Walter Morrison.
He studied me for a moment before asking whether he knew me. I explained that he had once served alongside my father many years ago, during a time both of them rarely spoke about. He had helped my father during a difficult moment in their service, and my family had never forgotten his name.
When I told him who I was, recognition softened his expression. He remembered my father. He remembered holding me when I was very young. The emotion between us settled into something heavy and quiet.
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