LynelleSpeak

Your official job title was security guard. Every day at the same time I saw you walking up the sidewalk to the lobby, lunch bag in hand. You greeted me and opened the double doors, looking to the left and right, to see who might be passing by in the hospital corridors to chat. Then you took your post, standing next to the desk where I sat as receptionist. You greeted one and all who came into the lobby as if they were your next door neighbor. You got me through bad hair days and through love life drama days. "He now realizes what he's lost, but he knows that it's too late for him," you advised me. We shared plenty of laughs, as well.

I learned fascinating things about you. Your parents divorced when you were a child. Your sister stayed with your mother and you stayed with your dad. You were not Catholic but you attended Catholic school. You have never tasted chocolate in your whole life. When you and your first wife divorced she took everything from you. But she gave you freedom from her and that was all that you needed. Your second wife died of cancer and you raised your children alone. You knew your third wife was the one the moment you laid eyes on her. The first time you were with your new wife you saw your deceased wife standing in the doorway. She smiled and nodded at you.

One evening I watched the news and it was reported that an elderly lady walked up to her ex-boyfriend and shot him at point range. I later learned that the victim in the news story was your father-in-law. That was the day you came to work and, instead of peering into the corridors to chat with passersby you went directly to the room behind the lobby desk and called your wife.

On this Memorial Day I remember that you are, and I thank you for being a Viet Nam veteran. And on more days than you know I remember how your unofficial job title was Lynelle's security blanket.