Proud Old Man

I once knew an old man who liked to go on walks alone. I never really got that, people have always been my thing. Whenever I would drive by him, I’d slow down to wave, just to see him stop and stand up all proud and straight and look back at me. I never really got that, he took life so seriously. He returned every look right back eye-to-eye, just to show he was ready for anyone and everything. What a proud, silly old man.

A few years later, I went to that man’s funeral. He didn’t know he had one, because he was dead. He looked just as serious in that casket, though he wasn’t really there. I never really got that, I don’t want people to look at me when I’m not really there. But there he was, as proud as ever.

And I heard the speeches, of a man who was a savior, of a man who once defended what was soon to be my land. And I know it’s kind of mushy, to cry about a country, but I tell you I proudly did. They said he was a hero, they said he was leader, they said he was all that a soldier could ever possibly achieve. And then I finally “got” him.