By October 2005 he was on his second
tour in Iraq, part of a team destroying roadside bombs when
the improvised explosive device was thrown from a passing car.
The day I met him, the May sun flooded the sidewalk at Fisher House
building 55 on grounds of Walter Reed,
my visit, prearranged, just to say thank you.
I watched him wheel his chair up hill after practicing
to stand again and walk with two prosthetics,
his young wife close, carrying Marshall, just one month old.
In the family room Cristian spoke openly,
no prompting no bitterness about that day the dust
settled and he lay on his stomach on the ground, seeing first
his wedding ring then visions of his wife
before realizing he wasn't dead.
Just twenty-three and handsome with muscular arms
he removed a prosthetic, unapologetic, unembarrassed
from the right eight inches of leg still below the knee, then
pulled the material of his shorts to uncover and massage
his left thigh, now only a stub.
With small talk and oogling over their son, Cristian told
with pride about Marshall's birth at Bethesda in April,
how he sat in his wheelchair in the delivery room and
cut his son's umbilical cord.
For some moments I sat silent, humbled
in the presence of courage, two young lives already challenged,
under appreciated by many they served
and not a single negative word
only hope for a positive future. Thankful for a stranger's visit.
Cuddling baby Marshall I smiled and said,
"you know your daddy's a real hero, your mommy, too"
then pushed back tears, angry at the cruelty of war.
Leaving building 55, I wondered how I could ever
provide enough gratitude. I smiled and said hello to another
double amputee, his strong arms turning the spokes of his wheelchair
down the sidewalk, and I waved at another
stepping with prosthetics, with no intimidation.
Their return smiles and waves offerings
they didn't even owe. |
