😮 I removed the handcuffs from a prisoner and recognized the tattoo of my dead father. He died in Vietnam three months before I was born; I never knew him. 💔 And this 67-year-old man, accused of stealing medicine from a pharmacy, had the same military badge on his arm that my mother has had framed in the living room for forty-eight years.

We couldn’t even get him down completely.”

One more name for a grave I didn’t know existed.

“And this one,” he said, stopping at a thin, serious boy, the only one not laughing in the photo, “this is me.” I stared at that serious boy. How many times as a child did I cover the photo with my finger, playing a guessing game to see who was the bravest. I continue reading …