It would be hard these days to find the most unspeakable crime. The headlines are filled with the imprisonment  or murders of innocent citizens here and abroad.  Crimes against humanity go unaddressed or ignored. Honestly, my heart breaks with such regularity that I am afraid of losing to the ability to feel the depth of the pain in the world.

But then today, a man was placed next to me in a veterinarian’s office where I had gone to pick up medication for my limping dog. He and his wife had come through the door with Annie, their frightened little dog. The man worked his way with great difficulty to sit down next to me. His breathing was so labored I feared he might pass out even though he was carrying oxygen, so I asked him if he was okay.

No. But I might get there.

After his wife took in his beloved dog, I noticed he had colorful tattoos on his leathered skin, and down the inside of his right arm word were the words, “Never Forgive…” I asked him to tell me the story, and he turned over his arm to show me the words written on the other side, “Never forget.” 

That was our motto in our battalion when we served in Vietnam.

Being a military brat, I asked him where he shipped out from, and it turns out it was Ford Ord, California in 1970, which is where I worked when I was in high school. I wondered if we had crossed paths and asked him how long he was in Vietnam. He did not hesitate.

365 days and nine hours.

 “I bet when those nine hours ended it felt like the best day of your life to be going home…” 

But it was not. He told me his personal story of what it was like to be a soldier returning from that godforsaken war - about being spit on, sneered at, and called names wherever he traveled because a military dress uniform was required when he was in public.

As he was telling his story. the receptionist motioned that my pills were ready, but I could not leave the conversation unfinished. He shared his surgeries, of which there were many, the Parkinson’s syndrome that robbed him of normal movement, and the removal of various cancers throughout his body. Unable to lie fully down, he had spent the last 12 years sleeping in a recliner. Life had become a litany of pain since that service in Vietnam, and he carried the scars not only on his physical body but on his psyche as well. 

He has been deserted by his country, betrayed by a VA medical system underfunded and in disarray, and by his body - destroyed from the inside out by exposure to agent orange. And now, he wept as he shared his deepest worry that today he would lose his beloved Annie - his reason to live

When he finished his story, I took both of his trembling hands and told him I would pray for a good outcome for Annie, and then I got good eye contact and simply said, “I am sorry your country betrayed you. Thank you for serving.” He smiled deeply.

 I thank you for listening to my story.

 “Sir, it was an honor.”

When I got back to the car where my husband and dog awaited, a paroxysm of grief seized me.

The story told to me today was not an anomaly. It was an encapsulation of the lived experience of those who served and continue to serve in the military. Our government tells us that we need to respect our military. And I would tell you that as the daughter of a Korean war and World War II veteran and the sister of a Vietnam war veteran, respecting the military is in my DNA.

But respecting our military is simply an empty phrase if we do not honor their sacrifices and fund the care that will help soldiers emerge with greater possibility of healing from the horrors of war. 

Respecting our military is an empty phrase when mothers and fathers and sons and daughters die senselessly in unjust wars.

And for me respecting our military is simply an empty phrase when we continue to send soldiers recklessly to foreign battlefields on the whims of out-of-control tyrants.

That is a most unspeakable crime.

My neighbor, Miss Linda, is a fountain of wisdom whose calm way of entering into discussions always seems to provide me with unexpected insight.

Yesterday at a shared meal, I told her about recent encounters on the trail with our dog Zuni, a golden retriever who is naturally reticent about strangers. We had met a woman on a trail in Canada, and our dog uncharacteristically went up to her and started being very affectionate. The woman told us through tears that her dog had died a few weeks ago, and that today was the first day she was able to be on the trail.

Then on another trail near home, our dog became fixated on a woman walking behind us. Zuni waited for her and greeted the stranger like an old friend. When the woman passed me, I told her what an unusual behavior that was for our dog, and she too mentioned through tears that she had lost her dog a few weeks ago.

I suggested to Miss Linda, that perhaps Zuni had a sixth sense about who needed some loving dog attention because they were in mourning. Her response was, “Perhaps the dogs are still there.”

That is a possibility I had not considered.

We live in a world that is here and not here at the same time - the seen and the unseen. I walk through my days in what I believe is the “reality” of life on Earth, but there are other realms all around us into which we only get brief glimpses before returning to “reality.”

My reality today is that the neighbor I have been spending time with passed away last night. I remembered that a few days before her passing, Zuni, who for many days had not wanted to go anywhere near the home, entered freely with her tail wagging and went into the room where my friend was lying motionless. She sat down next to the bed and put her head on the covers near my friend‘s hand. That was a behavior that was so out of character I wondered if Zuni knew my neighbor’s time was near.

And now, just two days later, my neighbor is gone. At least from this realm.

When I walked down the sidewalk that connects our homes to take the dog out this morning, I felt overwhelming sadness when I passed her door, and I carried my tears back into my house and on to the couch where I sat down to write. My dog, who normally stretches out across the room from wherever I am, joined me unexpectedly on the couch. As she let me rub her head, I thought of Miss Linda’s words.

Perhaps she is still here.

After I dried my tears, I took that possibility on my trail walk this morning.

I let myself envision my neighbor walking with my dog and I, enjoying the teasels filling in with delicate violet and the blackberries turning shades of purple as they readied themselves for picking.

I let myself hear her voice and her smokey laugh as we wandered through the grassy fields in the morning’s breeze.

And I let myself feel her lavish affection flowing from that realm where grief is temporal

and love is never lost.

Only five days separate my neighbor’s birthday and mine. Had we known each other in our youth, we might have gone to kindergarten together and played on the playground. But here we are, meeting each other in our 74th year - she mostly confined to a recliner or bed, and me searching for new hikes every day with my golden retriever. As we have become friends, I have learned it has been, “a long and winding road,” for us both. We both grew up with mother figures who were less than mothering....

Last summer as I walked through the underbrush on a trail down to the river, loud music and boisterous laughter rose from below. Thinking a gathering of teenagers must have overtaken the beach, I was surprised when a raft the size of a small living room floated into view overflowing with women well past their teenage years. In the middle, a woman held court, her full-throated laughter leading the others. There is a boldness to women who laugh loudly with such abandon - who wrap voluptuous...