Kennedy

“Hey, Kennedy.”

He turned around, expected to see someone he'd recognize. Instead, he saw me.

I saw his name on the backpack he slung over his shoulder. Dressed in a dusty brown camouflage fatigue, he strolled casually through the corridors passing one gate after another, pausing to stare out the windows. Newark's skyline dimmed in the faint light of winter weather. I had been stalking him for several gates. I noticed the heels of his boots were well worn. Either he had been in the Army for some period time or the US Government issued cheap boots. Where had he been? What had he seen?

Under my arm I carried a Christmas present, framed photos of another soldier. I bridged a gap of time, but an emotion that was timeless.

I smiled at the young Asian American. His jet black hair spiked as if static electricity drew it to the sky. "I know you don’t know me, but I wanted to say thank you for your service."

He took my offered hand of appreciation. It was warm and soft, like a baby's. He was a baby. Someone's son.

"Thank you ma’am." I tried not to cringe. Not at his politeness or in awe of it, but at the word ma'am. But what should I have expected?

"Are you going home?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Well, I want to wish you a Merry Christmas, safe travel and again, thanks for your service."

"Merry Christmas."

Yeah, it will be.