This day. That day. Saturday. D Day

As I was trying to remember what I was going to do today I remembered that this was the anniversary of D Day. The 65th anniversary.

I live near Washington, DC. I have a motorcyle. The WW II memorial is only 30 minutes away. My list can wait.

On the way to the Mall I pass Arlington Cemetary. The White House. Memories of that particular set of war footage showing perhaps four or five soldiers running across the beach with two of them getting hit are, for so reason, running through my head.

I've brought my camera knowing full well that I am not going there to take pictures of the memorial. It hasn't changed that much since the last time I took pictures of it.

I went there to see them. The veterans. 

As I approach the monument it occurs to me that the worst moment of my life must pale in comparison to the thousands of moments each of those men and women experienced. I know that I am going to die. The older I get the more I know it. But to know that I am going to do something that may result in my death within a matter of days is an incomprensible thought to me.  And death won't come in a hospital room surrounded by my loved ones or those who are dedicated to keep me alive. No, to look at death in some nameless place in a manner too horrific to even think about is something that I cannot imagine but something that some of the people I am about to see have experienced. 

And then, there they were. Flown in for the day to see the Memorial and to be seen. A line of men and women, most of them in wheel chairs, lined up against one of the southern walls of the monument.

Camera in hand I took my time taking pictures of each of them as individuals. One veteran made me smile. Even now he was taking pictures of us with a disposable camera. Why doesn't he have one of those great new portable digital cameras? It doesn't matter. He's here and I get to see him.

At the mere thought of approaching him to shake his hand and to say, "Thank you for your service", I am overcome with emotion, and tears are streaming down my face. I can't let him see me like this, I think. I should be more in control. Get a grip on yourself. 

But then I remember that for these guys there were those terrible moments when they didn't have the chance to get a grip on themselves. And for some of them who were not here, they had no chance of anything at all.

To make the day even more remarkable, after mustering the will to approach him, and after taking his hand and saying, "Thank you", he looked up at me and in the most understanding voice summed up the feelings I think we both had.

"Thank you for caring", he said.

This day. Saturday. D Day.