One man

Greetings,

One morning after noodles I wander down an alley. I make an image of a man, maybe 60 - hard to be precise - in an alley sitting alone, sharpening an edge, redefining the steel. His labor, simple tools. No left foot. He curled his leg stump back to rest it on a boot. He went to work.

In the afternoon I'm sitting along a sidewalk near the market. He walks past with a shuffling gait. He's wearing a green fatigue shirt, hat, motorcycle helmet, carrying his red plastic bag with his simple tools.

I watched him walk. Knowing his truth, not knowing his story. Perhaps a land mine or a stray bullet. His left boot is an old combat boot issued to soldiers. A discarded war object. It is splitting down the front.

It is brutally hot. The sun is behind him. I wonder how he feels? Where is he going? Home for lunch and a rest? Looking for more dull edges?

I am surrounded by amputees here. They come to me on their crutches, their hands out. They wheel themselves down the street on little trolleys. A one-armed young man wears an old blue baseball hat. He sees local businessmen approaching. They wear fresh pressed white shirts, leather shoes and shiny silver belt buckles. He takes off the old hat. Holds it out. It is empty. They ignore him. He puts it on his arm stump, runs his one good hand through his black hair, puts his cap on and moves down the street. 

The legless, the armless armies of physically wounded humans. They know you and you know them.

Metta.