I explore antique shops to look for stories. Every piece inside is a narrative about the past. I find parts of my own history woven into the aisles. A mushroom canister set from the 70s takes me back to baking in my mother’s kitchen. A very old, heavy, black rotary phone reminds me of my grandmother’s house. My wandering path takes me away from today’s worries and sets my imagination free. I gaze on items which I have never seen and my mind comes alive with possibilities of where, when, and how these objects where used. Who used them? How did they find their way to this shop? The material I imagine is rich with possibility, and it transports me out of our current divided, wounded, inflammatory world to simpler times. It’s a field trip to the past; a story store.

His name was Hank. His gorgeous eyes were the deepest of blues. He had a chiseled jaw and broad chest. Handsome in every way. He caught my eye immediately as he walked each aisle in the antique mall. He wore a camouflage vest. Military. I tried not to stare, but I was curious. I smelled a story here, so I followed at a distance. Hank and his companion stopped at each stall that had military artifacts. They were in no hurry. Hank’s vest was adorned with military patches and I wondered if he earned them or of they were purchased.

I continued my meandering, keeping Hank in my peripheral vision and trying to figure out a way to start up a conversation. The opportunity presented itself in the parking lot as I was leaving. Hank’s companion handed me his leash and said he was going to get some water for him. Hank is a service dog, by the way, in case you were wondering. A beautiful Pitbull mix with shiny charcoal fur. And those eyes…just gorgeous. His companion was a tall man who walked with a limp. One side of his body was noticeably weaker than the other. His eyes were a bit vacant, but his speech was clear. As he walked away from me, back towards the building, a woman, I assume his wife, took the leash from me.

I told her what a beautiful dog Hank was. She thanked me. I didn’t ask any of the questions spinning in my mind. Her eyes were tired. Her face drawn. I recognized the look of a shell-shocked woman. The man returned with water for Hank. I asked if I could pet him. The answer was yes. I looked into those blue eyes and he took me in, decided I was okay, and leaned into my pets. The man didn’t speak. The woman was ready to go. So, I thanked them and went on my way, without the story I came for. Without the story I knew was standing right in front of me. Some stories are too painful to tell and those are the ones I respect the most. They cannot be forced, or pried from their tellers. They must come out in their own time and their own way.

I know enough to envision some of it. A wounded military veteran. Brain injury which affected his walk, his arms, his vacant eyes. I imagine an IED exploding along a sandy road somewhere far away, which changed his life forever. Long recovery. Finding the right dog…Hank. Wife becoming a lifetime caregiver. The hardship of it all. The unspoken story was fully alive in the eyes. The vacant look that most folks probably wouldn’t notice, if not for the service dog at his side. The overwhelmed soul crying out from the tired stare of a woman in over her head. And the steel blue eyes of the protector, who sees it all…clearly.

Military veterans know about brain injury too well. They are some of the most affected. In the line of duty, they face dangers we cannot imagine. They accept the danger, and too many of them are disabled by it. They are on a hard road with their families…and their service dogs.

Brain Injury Awareness Month…I found part 4…in an antique store.