By B.G. Smith
I picked up the olive drab green jacket off the wood folding table and was awe-struck by its history. Elbows heavily soiled by black mud from a far-away land and a bygone era. A grease stain on the jacket side front was the size and shape of a human eye, ever watchful. The embroidered name tag above the right chest pocket read “HARPER,” its rightful owner.
“PFC John C. Harper, United States Army. Served in ‘Nam from ‘67 to ‘68,” said the gray-haired woman at the end of the driveway.
“I’d be honored to own it,” I replied.
“I write because I couldn’t hit the curve ball.” – the writer