Hero

He was larger than life to me, a man strong enough to carry 150+ lbs. of body down a fire ladder if the need arose. A man strong enough to let his actions speak for him. All the while he existed comfortably and quietly in the background, adjusting his eyeglasses and observing.

He was a dichotomy. Strong yet pensive, quiet yet with a hearty laugh when you caught him at just the right moment. By day he worked physically demanding jobs, sometimes two or three at a time, to put his children through private school. By night he would transform into a gifted musician and artist.

One of the things he never spoke to me about was his experience in what he'd probably say was his most important job. There were small clues he left behind to discover later in life: the toolbox with the POW-MIA sticker on it, the doodles, the pictures of him and his friends in front of a crumbling fountain somewhere in Italy, craters in the background.

I found out years later about the months of painful rehab, and I can only imagine the friends he lost. The ones that had bullets find their head instead of their knee. The ones that came back physically able, but mentally gone.

He'd probably be embarrassed if he knew I was writing about him, but for once I don't mind making him feel a little uncomfortable. I don't think he'd object too strongly if he were here anyway. After all this is a day the people of our country remember their heroes, so Happy Memorial Day, Dad.