Monday, May 25, 2009
My dad is a Marine.
There is no such thing as "was" a Marine. Until you're dead, maybe.
He is a veteran of the Vietnam War. He joined the armed forces when he was only 17 and came home two years later with a Purple Heart and shrapnel that he would keep as a souvenir the rest of his life. My beautiful father, with his incredible heart and unfailing generosity, jumps at small sounds and hunkers at helicopters overhead. He is a veteran.
His father, my grandfather, was a Marine who fought in World War II. Pacific theater. He, too, came home with a Purple Heart. He was a veteran.
His father, my great-grandfather, was a Marine. He fought in World War I. When he enlisted, the recruiting officer wrote down that he was the "finest physical specimen" he had ever seen. He was a veteran.
It goes without saying that there is a flag flying in front of my house today, and a catch in my throat when I look at it.
Thanks, Dad. I am so proud to be your daughter.