War Wounds

Two veterans are sharing a table at a Veteran's Day event. They are not friends. One hates the other; one's apologetic. One served duty in Vietnam in country, in the field.

The other served state-side, yet both shared time during the conflict. One will not embrace the other, shake his hand, or speak because he has no respect for his comrade.

In his eyes, he didn't survive battle, carry weapons, fight, or see death face to face. The other will not speak about his claim to have 'served' during the conflict.

One bears the scars of war – the sounds, the smoke, the shells, and screams of death – the blood of his companions dying.

And the other's memories are of California sunsets, beaches, swimming, laughing, and playing while his table-mate was in the battle.

They ignore each other and share the moment but don't speak. They cannot, will not, for the memories are too real for both.

The celebration ends, the men stand up to leave, and neither one looks back or speaks. The years they shared – the 60s and the 70s – are over, passed, but both men know them in different ways.

One knows the horror of Vietnam; the other only knows of California and good times. Neither can find a place in life for one another, and they'll only share the time – the years – but nothing else.

They both are veterans of an era, of a war from separate vantage points. And neither does nor will find room or friendship for his comrade.

War's a personal thing that cannot and that will not be a shared memory. A veteran is a veteran to himself and no one else.