When our overly-crowded plane touched down in Charlotte and the passengers ever so slowly made their way down the skinny aisle, I saw him again. I, sitting in row 5, had to wait for the entire plane to clear before I could access my carry-on in overhead bin 14. I wasn't thrilled to say the least, but I had some time to kill so I sat as patiently as I could.
When I saw him working his way to the front of the plane, I noticed more than his crutches. I noticed he was young... younger than me. He was handsome. I noticed how uncomfortable he seemed on his crutches, like they were very new to him. I saw how his eyes were somewhere else. I noticed his arms. Carefully covered from burn wounds. Then I noticed his shirt. In familiar branding, I saw the words "Wounded Warrior" in the right hand corner. I saw his backpack, shorts, side bag and hat all said those same two words.
A feeling swelled up in my chest and I could practically feel the prick of tears fighting to surface. He was a Wounded Warrior. It felt like a half hour had passed, yet it was mere seconds as he passed me. He looked at me as he passed aisle 5. I smiled at him. His gaze reflected my attention, and then he was gone.
I desperately wanted to catch up with him... maybe to shake his hand or say a simple "thank you." I almost had the chance, but after the wait for my bag, he turned off toward a different gate before I could reach him. I watched him disappear, silently saying a prayer for him. Thanking him in my heart.
I went away from that quick experience reminded of how much we owe our military. How much they have given and continue to give... and how little we ever give back to them.
I know that young man will never read these words, but I wish for him to know that he touched my heart that day. It has been nearly a week now and he is still in my thoughts. I didn't get a chance to tell him then, but from my heart here and now... Thank you.
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