There were thousands of observers there around him, but sitting in his wheelchair, he felt alone.He looked on at the stone monument for his fallen comrades.
What a joke, he thought. What a waste.
Hundreds of my friends and family all dead, and for what?
So a bunch of hippy teeny boppers can run around flaunting their sexuality and screaming that everything in the world needs to be handed to them on a silver platter?
That’s not why I went to war. That’s not why we risked everything.
We risked it all so that they had the freedom to do, not the freedom to demand. We risked it all so that they had the opportunity, the chance at something, not the right. But look at them. Squandering everything we did, and oblivious at the cost.
What a waste, on a generation that does not care.
He stared at the memorial, anger mounting, tearing of grief attempting to billow over.
Then, a child’s voice pulled him from his furious state.
“Mister…I’m sorry your friends died. Thank you for doing that for me.”
The dam of tears let one go.
Thank God, he thought. Maybe this generation isn’t completely lost.