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I saw a face today across the parking lot I had just entered. I thought I recognized it. But, no. It was a drifter, one of those lost souls that some people abhor that roams the roads and highways of America, and maybe elsewhere. Long turning gray/brown ponytailed hair, unshaven for weeks hiding a shallow cheek bones. A hunger for food, a hunger for belonging somewhere else. Anyway, I drove up and parked in the spot in front of him where he was leaning against the wall of the convenience store by the entrance. On the ground next to him was an old military sleeping bag hanging out of a faded duffle bag. He wore beat up fatigues and a ratty old beret, green, no, maybe black. I didn't feel sorry for him. Or should have I? When I neared the parking space in front of him he looked at my Montana state Disabled Veteran plates. The look of his eyes went to that of grateful instead of miserable. I got out of my truck and was going to pass by him when I stopped. I asked him if I could get or do something for him. He shook my hand and said, "You just did".
Remember and care for those souls, for they are our countrymen, and we are theirs.
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