.jpg)
I took out my old camouflaged uniform and the creases were still there.
Hadn't ironed them.
Or starched them.
Just took them right out the dryer and there they were -- the creases. So I placed them on a shelf, folded and neat.
I tried to write, but the words weren't there.
But the cammi's were.
Faded.
The dark greens were now pastels. The browns and blacks muted.
Tattered fabric mapping field operations.
The running. The jumping. The hating. The sweat and the blood.
These were very old uniforms. Bootcamp issue.
I bring my cammi's to my face. Inhale deep -- crisp canvas and a hint of starch.
And the creases. White lines running the length of my thigh. Sharp and smoothed by the iron.
We'd starch them in garrison. The iron steaming, sizzling as it slid past the greens and blacks and browns.
I walk to the mirror and look at myself now.
In my cammi's.
Like some Vietnam Vet marching against the war. Unshaven. Un-Sat.
Like a GI atop some float, gray-haired, sporting his VFW colors, waving to the crowd on November 10th.
But my uniform doesn't fit well. It hangs off my frame, two sizes too big.
Like a different man wore this uniform.
Not me. Not me with sideburns and soul patch.
That's the funny thing.
It was.
I take off my old uniform and fold it nicely -- remembering the kids who wore them too.
