My Dad died when I was 19.
But even today I remember that small patch of smooth skin on his left shoulder. It had an almost translucent quality. Dad never liked to talk about it. Just once he told me he’d been shot in the war, in the Philippines, and there was still a small piece of metal deep beneath the skin.
He almost never talked about it, but every once in awhile his shoulder would “act up” and he’d have me slather some smelly concoction on the site. Was supposed to make it hurt less.
I am thinking about my Dad a lot these days. I can’t help but think that the country we’re becoming now is not the America he fought for. His shoulder would be”acting up.”