Dog Tags

“Come on, Felix, you got this, man.” Ray jogged comfortably beside his friend, whose face was beet red, his breath labored. “Not too much further. Look, you can see the finish line from here.” Running on Ray's other side was a streamlined Miguel, who offered vocal support. Behind him trotted Augie, who was flanked by Elvis. And somewhere in the sea of walkers, joggers, and sprinters taking part in the first annual 5K, 10K fundraiser for Veterans Support was his sister, Hope, pushing a stroller, Gabrielle by her side.

The streets were lined with community members who rang cowbells, tooted handheld horns, held signs, and yelled words of encouragement. Ray was surprised by the turnout. The whole town had rallied behind the idea of honoring those lost in service, whether on the front line or after they returned. The race was the kickoff event for the annual Arts, Beats, and Eats weekend festival.

What started as a conversation in his veterans’ support group had found wings and taken flight with unexpected ease. Throughout the crowd of participants and onlookers were hand-held signs “I am walking this for Private Getty” and “In remembrance of my son.” In Felix’s arms were combat boots with the two names of the men in his unit who lost their lives during his tour. In Ray’s pocket, he carried a handwritten list of the names of the men he served with who lost their lives, names he would hold in his heart, always. If Ray could hover above the runners, joggers, and walkers, he would see that they carried their loved ones with them. Written on boots, tucked in arms, pockets, and minds was a tide of loss, lives forever impacted by the course of war. And if he could continue to rise above and move down, overlooking the stream of participants, there, toward the end, he would see his father and mother, Bert and Maria Shipworth, walking the 5K course, side by side, their hands close to each other but not quite touching. Circling his father's neck, underneath his cotton button-down shirt, not externally visible, snug against his chest was the oblong identification tags his older brother wore when serving in Vietnam. The same silver military dog tags Bert found around his brother’s neck the day Gus took his own life, the ones Bert removed from his soul-fled body before the coffin was permanently shut and lowered into the ground.

Since his brother's funeral, Bert kept the markers tucked away in a shoebox buried deep in a dark corner of the storm cellar. The morning Ray was scheduled to leave for boot camp when Maria left the house to deliver their son’s favorite muffins “to the residents in the nursing home,” who had she been trying to fool anyway, Bert lumbered down the stairs and desperately dug out the cobwebbed covered box.

Pastor Bert Shipworth hadn’t taken the dog tags off once since he put them on the day his only son left to start his military service. The chain sometimes caught in his chest hair, tightly pulling–the pain of remembrance. He held them every morning when he rose and every night before he closed his eyes, ending the day as it had begun, with a touch and a prayer.

A wave of support and encouragement swelled from the crowded sidelines as participants neared the end. Sustaining blood flow. Ray was reminded again of the way a body fights to preserve life. How people likewise can pull together, forming protective bands, circles of reinforcement, and how the magnitude of being part of a community dedicated to a more significant cause can ease a sense of hopeless isolation. If insistent and persistent enough, sometimes even the most despairing can be reached. Ray and Felix crossed the finish line together.

****

Leo filled the water bowls and adjusted the red, white, and blue bandannas around the rescue dogs and cats she and some other volunteers brought to the festival. Months of love and attention renewed these once-discarded creatures. They were ready to find their forever homes. Leo was optimistic. The adoption application table already had a family filling out a form. Their little girl, her auburn hair in braids, was sitting under a tree with a volunteer in front of Surtr’s cage, tiny fingers stroking his fur, a look of pure contentment on the canine’s face.

The smells of food vendors had the dog’s nares quivering. The first band began to play. Her dad was running the 10K along with his high school cross-country team. Jennifer and Uncle Paul were near the finish line, noisemakers in hand. On this cloudless morning, where the sky and possibilities seem infinite, she imagined Ray running, with his family and golden-haired girlfriend cheering him on, supporting him through his ongoing journey. And, for a moment, she allowed herself to be with him too.