lauren farmer

This sweet man.

He whispered in my ear. He told me how his wife thinks he looks like an old man with a cane, so he brought a long umbrella with him instead. He leaned gently on it the entire time.

And then while he showed me an old photograph of him and his buddies, all at age 19, he recounted the time that they ran into Hitler outside of Rome and how it made him feel.

And then he asked me if when he dies, whether my generation will step up to take care of his homeless veteran friends. I told him that we would.

I don’t even know his name.