A face more powerful

The car I saw on my way to work looked sad. Denigrated. Dank as though forgotten. Riddled with signs and trinkets commemorating a man of war. A child of war, likely. A wheelchair on the roof, strapped with crutches and patriotic tokens. Dirtied, as though ground in dirt. Deliberate. The rear hatchback yawning to expose army fatigues with a folded flag at the knees. And under that, another pair of crutches with a banner attached. "PTSD." Post traumatic stress disorder. On the side, more banners. "Thank you, military." "Thank you, army." "Remember your children, remember your troops." Sarcastic? Not all of them, at least. I think. "My Son." Written without an exclamation mark, but it seemed as though the driver was screaming it. My Son! Desperation. As I walked passed, and the car idled at an insufferable Boston traffic light, I saw the face of the driver as he reached across to empty passenger seat for the glove compartment. Ruddy, tanned skin. Almost wild, curly hair. And eyes. I'm not sure how my mind made such a connection with this man, even though his message could hardly be ignored. Seeing his face sealed the fate of our connection. Of my concern for him and his son. I couldn't tell if his son was dead or injured. If he was furious or apologetic or resentful. I wanted to stop him, to talk to him. Maybe photograph him, and capture his image. His face was so much more powerful than his message.