I never imagined I’d start my mornings walking around the Washington Monument, a trash bag in one hand and a grabber in the other. Yet here I am. Each day, before the crowds arrive, I show up—knee brace on, wearing my old army hoodie, moving slow but steady. I pick up bottles, wrappers, cigarette butts—whatever’s been left behind. It’s not glamorous, but it gives me a purpose.
At first, I did it for myself. Keeping a place like this clean made me feel connected to something bigger. It reminded me of my time in the service—about taking care of something that matters. But before long, I started noticing the stares. Some folks gave polite nods. Others whispered. I overheard one man tell his friend, “Bet he’s doing community service or something.” That one stung. I wanted to explain myself, to tell them I was a vet, just doing my part. But I kept my head down and kept going.
Then one morning, something different happened. I found an envelope tucked under a bench. No name. Just the words “FOR YOU” scribbled on it. I almost ignored it, thinking it was more litter, but something made me pause. I stood there for a long minute, unsure if I should open it. Eventually, curiosity won out.
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