....for your service.

  "Do you know me?"  he asked from his wheelchair, where he sat in the Namaste room, and beckoned me toward him. I was struck because he didn't ask, "Do I know you?" as might be expected. I answered no, but that I had seen him there before.
     So he started to tell me about himself, that he'd been overseas in combat for four years, and had seen three members of his company killed before his eyes. He said even now the memory of it makes him cry, and he began to do so, tears sliding down his face.  I tried to change the subject by reminding him that we all appreciated his service, and what he had been through.  He said he had been a sharpshooter, one of the best, and that he had shot one of the enemy right between the eyes.  He pointed to the spot on his own forehead, seeming satisfied with his accomplishment.  He wanted to tell me more, but I had to leave. I said I'd see him next time.
   It's true that there are exaggerations of war stories, but it is also true that things did happen. Regardless, these veterans were once vital and self-sufficient beings, able to travel all over the world and to function in important activities. They wore uniforms commanding respect from, or at very least the attention of, all those they met.  Now most of them are entrapped by their own bodies, dependent on others for every bodily need.  Age and infirmity exact a harsh toll.
    So the answer to "Do you know me?" is no.  Nobody does know you, not anymore.  Our mortal flaw is to think that somebody should know who we were before time nullified what was.