After the concert in the park the people drifted away and he sat alone on a bench near the Memorial Fountain. An old man, he wore a very old uniform and it was shiny in places where he had worn it thin. He was still hearing the music, and thought how few had really heard it at all.

A young boy and his mother walked by him. The boy turned and asked “Are you a soldier?”

And he replied “Yes, a long time ago. Today I am again.”

“Where’s your gun?”

“I passed it on to those who were soldiers after me”.

On the left breast of his uniform were small holes and tatters of thread. The boy noticed them and asked “Where’s your medals?”

“One by one I left them with friends when I said goodbye to them. They were always partly theirs.”

“Where did they go?”

“Well, someone I admired very much said that old soldiers never die, they just fade away. But he was only half-right about that.”

“I don’t understand” said the boy.

“I know. Every year there are fewer people who do.”

“I want to be a soldier when I grow up, just like my dad. He’s been gone a long time.”

One campaign ribbon remained on the old man’s chest, and his fingers fumbled with it as he removed it and gave it to the boy. “Give this to your dad when you see him. Tell him . . . tell him it’s from an old friend.”