He awakens, not sure what day it is. It is January or July? Listens to songs on the radio. His life goes marching by.

When it was time for fireworks, he couldn’t recall the day that those colored flares and very loud sounds meant mortars were on the way. Moving slowly with his walker now, he doesn’t miss holiday picnics. He sits outside alone in his chair hoping for someone to visit.

On Memorial Day two months ago he went downtown to the parade. He insisted on bringing that little flag as he sat by in the wheelchair and waved. Oh, he could have gone along with them—his brothers in war long ago, but he chose to stay on the sidelines, watched them, and bowed his head low.

And now it is the fourth of July, and on the mirror in the car he can’t drive, the yellow and green poppy reminds him that he is alive.

The tremor in his hand shakes the pen and keeps him from writing his name. The vision that blurs keeps him from reading. Every day seems to be the same.

Sometimes he’ll speak to the “Big Boy,” forgetting the name of our son who helps him get to the chair and back when he can’t take more of the sun.

To think that once he was able to fight in 120 degrees and endure the orange mist that fell from skies as he helped cut out LZs. He didn’t hesitate to run out on the field while bullets whizzed past his head. They called him “Doc” as he ran to them and tried his best to keep them all from dead.

His family struggles from day to day existing on God’s grace. Now he’s 47 years old and can’t even own his own place.

It seems he’s at the mercy of a system that doesn’t care. One day he remarked that he didn’t have to wait when they sent him over there.

He said there was no waiting then—when they needed him, he went. Off to “sunshine country” far away where there his youth was spent.

He asks to see the paper, says it will help if he gets employed. Then he can get us the car we need, the kids’ shoes, the rent, some toys.

I ever so gently remind him, he’s not able to work, just yet. When he gets his miracle, that favorite job he’ll get.

Then I untie his shoes at the end of the day and call the kids to his side. “Say goodnight to Daddy.” I say, with tears in my eyes.

I tuck him in, turn off the clock. The hour is only eight. Then I take a deep sigh, put his radio on and again it proclaims the date.

The fourth of July, 1996—fireworks haven’t started yet.

I kiss his cheek and stroke his brow…“Good night, I love you, my vet.”

In memoriam: Philip J. Hansen First Car, 8th Engineers, Vietnam 1968-1969