The Retired Man

I’d been watching him for months. I’m dedicated to my cause so I’m always there, holding the signs I had painted myself with the glitter glue my little girl gave me. Over the last few months everyone protesting had come and gone. They would be entitled and opinionated and always have bad attitudes, which isn’t what I think this is all about. But that’s far from my current point. While I walked circles at the front gates chanting and getting major deltoid workouts this little old man would come by. He never looked at us or anyone else for that matter. He would come and stand at the gates and cry for about two hours, then he would leave. He seemed to be mourning something. Finally, giving my arms a rest, I put down my sign and went to stand next to him. Maybe I could console him. He stood tall and didn’t bother wiping his tears when I walked over to him. He didn’t hide away. Instead he said, “I used to work for those bastards.” There was a long pause while I nodded and considered telling him about why we were protesting. Then he looked at me and said, “You know, I’m sure there used to be a very nice garden there.” And then he left. I went back to my sign-holding as usual, but the thought of him and his words stuck for some reason. Over the next week I didn’t see him again. Finally I put down my sign and walked to the fence. I wanted to scream and yell. But instead, I started to cry. What else could I really do? There probably was a nice garden there. But now there were diplomats.