Lost and lurking near the harbor after dusk, dark gray hoodie and heavy laden, he slips then stumbles headlong down the waterfront, landing in a tumble against the pier. Slowly, straining, stretching, pulling from deep within his burden and tucking around his legs, remnant of a cast-off navy blanket and crust of earth decide his berth.
From beneath the misty shadows of the capitol dome, he rose from his sidewalk bed and brushed his cold fingers across the color-worn medal of valor rusting upon his collar. Soon the masses came, marching past in an encore parade of the every day and he raised his outstretched palm in solitary salute.
Sonya sat there with her filthy face and greasy gray hair, cloaked in a tattered coat, with her grocery cart full of her only worldly possessions next to her, while the city walked by her as if she was invisible or too below them to even take notice of her shivering in the cold.
Opening her jacket pocket she pulled a faded 25 year old news clipping in which she stood posing for the photo dressed in a regal gown, hair perfectly coiffed, face shining and she reread the almost invisible headlines with tears in her eyes, ”Nobel Peace Prize Winner Sonya Johanssen”.