A man came in, walking with a cane. Orange gloves on his hands. Former military, navy. Still does work for the military. Works with coast guard, marines, so forth. Rescue swimmers.
He left, and then returned. He took his gloves off to give me a bracelet he was wearing, you know, the band type. It has "strong b.a.n.d." on it. (I told him about my kids, they've deployed, within a month of one another. Anyway, he told me to tell them, "discas pate", learn to endure.)
His hands were badly scarred. Burns it appeared to me.
He was scarred over all visible parts of his body. I wish I'd paid more attention, but I didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable. There was something about him. Calm. I don't know. He has suffered, greatly.
When I asked his name, to tell my kids, he wrote down his full address.
I'm intrigued.
I dropped him a line, thanking him for his words and for the bracelet. I never heard back from him. You know, of course, when I googled him, nada, zip. Unless you include a deceased man, a pervert on Facebook, so forth, not a thing. If there is information about him, it's further in than I was willing to explore at the time.
Stories are meant to be told. I know nothing beyond these very basic pieces of this man's life. I would like to know more.
Write a comment