I stood there, in full uniform, on a scorching Memorial Day afternoon. My leg—injured long ago—throbbed with every minute. But this was my mission. Three hours of silence. Three hours of honor. For every fallen brother and sister who couldn’t stand anymore.
People passed by, some saluted, some cried. But then I heard them—the rumble of engines. A swarm of bikers roared down the street. The kind known to stir up trouble during these events. The crowd stiffened. Someone whispered, “Not today…”
They pulled up and parked. I braced myself. One of them approached. He looked me in the eye, then slowly removed his cap.
And saluted.
One by one, they joined me. No words. No noise. Just respect.
For the next hour, we stood—bikers and soldier—united in silence, sweat dripping, flags waving. Strangers held hands. A little boy placed a flower by my boot.
That’s the real America.
