I am not sure, Native Son, how you sat at bedside for so long. Tending the wounds of the dying, writing home letters for the limbless and the weak.
The war was no longer a Glorious Trope that would be over in 90 minutes, or even 90 days. It was a tragic national conflagration that would stretch out all across the soil, and set itself to haunting us forever.
And yet, there you sat, feeding people puddings, bathing their limbs and wounds, dignifying their departure‘s with notes of love and affection to their mothers and their fathers. To their wives, brothers, and sisters.
"My dear wife, you must excuse me for not having written. . . . have not been very well. . . this letter being penned by a friend who is now sitting by my side."
Most people never even knew of these, your holy acts. Most have never read AT ALL the Sacred Mission you took on.
“Many sick and wounded soldiers have not written home to parents, brothers, sisters, and even wives . . . for a long, long time,"
"Some are poor writers, some cannot get paper . . . many . . . dread to worry the folks at home — the facts about them are so sad to tell."
“I always encourage the men to write, and promptly write for them.”
A BALM our nation needed then, A BALM our nation needs this day.
Walt. Walt, Walt, THANK YOU.
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