Tenacious Tiger #3

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Dear George,

I don't know how to go about writing this, nor why I am, really. I guess I just feel bad for you. Many nights when I leave work, I cry for you; for who you are, and for who you used to be. It's just sad. I've watched you for more than 15 years, now. 15 years, 3 months, and 12 or 13 days at last count, give or take a leap year. I've never been good with those leap years.

I've watched as your memories started to fade. First it was simple things, like who the President was at the time, or what day of the week it was. Then you started to forget why you were here; and finally, who you were. And for that I cry.

I cry because of what you've accomplished in your ninety-four years, and I just can't fathom why no one ever seems to give a damn. The new girls just laugh and point at what you've become. "He's drooling, stupid old man," they say. "I bet he pisses his pants." And you just sit there, completely silent as usual, because you don't know who they are, and you might not even understand what they're saying. I don't know, anymore. But I remember the days gone by. Secretly, you've always been my favorite, Georgey.

You were always our story teller. You would tell the other ladies and me about your days "in the trenches" as you called it, over in Germany, about how you would take on entire platoons of men without a single drop of sweat exiting your brow. Our own personal Rambo! And you told us about that time you lost your cousin. You could tell something was wrong in the air. You had grown used to the scent of hot lead and blood interlaced with the sweat of men. But when the shot rang clear, you could just feel something was wrong. I couldn't imagine the horror you felt that day.

And you would always tell us how you were the first one to reach all of those captured children. "I just shot the damn hinges off the door," you would always grumble to us, like it was en event as worthy as picking up a gallon of milk on the way home from work; what modesty you have Georgey! Then I wonder at times how many people's lives you've touched, and I get nauseated thinking that they have all abandoned you.

I remember so vividly the last time your children came to visit. Christmas of 1994. You still talked then, but the only words you said that day were "Who the hell are these people, Judith. Call the damn police." I just wish your family knew you as much I did, or even that they cared to know.

But I want to let you know that there is one person that will never forget you, Georgey. I love you for who you are, who you were, and you will be throughout eternity. We'll miss you.

Sincerely,

Judy
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And with that, I folded the tear-drenched letter, smeared ink and all, and wedged it into an envelope I had in my desk drawer from when the Hallmark went out of business. On the way to the short service, I wondered what would have happened had George not bought that little plot of land in the cemetery decades ago. I guess the girls and I would've pitched in, maybe the local VFW would've helped us, too. I dunno. There were only 4 people at the service: the local chaplain, Doris and I, and a 20 year-old kid that I suppose worked for the city (although he just leaned on his shovel and smoked the whole time--what respect kids have). It was quaint; the chaplain read a few passages, sang a short hymn, and asked if anyone wanted to say anything. Nope, we just stood there. I taped my letter on top of the cedar box, whispered a short prayer, and it was slowly lowered into the ground. And again I cried. No family, no friends; just a few old women from the nursing home. Best of luck, Georgey.