I was in the cafeteria at work this morning getting my breakfast sandwich when someone inquired if I was in mourning. You see, I’ve been dressing more and more in all black attire. Just for the record, I do deviate from black at least 2 days out of the week.
I started to wonder myself why I’m wearing black more often than not, as of late. I’ve come to a couple of conclusions. I do wear black as a symbol of mourning.
I wear black for the men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice in the name of freedom. I wear it for those who fight for the rights we so easily take for granted day after day. For the men and women who ask nothing from us other than the ability to enjoy the same freedoms as we do. These men and women are the true American hero’s as far as I’m concerned and deserve much more than they are given.
I wear black for the homeless vets, the under-privileged and those forgotten by society. For the men, women and children existing in the shadows, wondering from minute to minute if it might be their last. I mourn because they reach out for a helping hand that isn’t there.
I wear black for those who struggle day in and day out to put food on the table, not able to get the much needed assistance because they don’t qualify. I mourn for the failing system that allows the able-bodied to leech off the system designed to help the truly needy.
I wear black for the abused children, women and elderly, beaten not only physically, but mentally by cowards who do it to make themselves feel superior or gratified in morally twisted ways.
I wear black for all the victims of crime.
I wear black for loved ones who have gone before me.
I wear black because I like it.
I wear black.
I’ve just given you five minutes…
