On a grey, sullen day in early June two men glided slowly toward one another at the Vietnam Memorial.  

One wore a black cap,  “Vietnam Veteran” embroidered in gold letters across the front.  He walked with a cane, stopping periodically to let his fingers read the names.

A hat-less young man who was tall and lithe stopped abruptly when he saw the vet’s fingers pause.

“Y—you knew him?” the young man said.

The vet stared at the name and nodded.  “Jimmy Hodgkins was my best buddy till . . .”  He grimaced as a huge tear slithered down his creviced cheek.

“He was my father.”  The young man’s eyes glistened.

For a long moment the two men stared at one another.

Then a slow smile crept across the old vet’s face.

“You’re Joey.  Jimmy was always wagging a photo of you and your mom in my face.  You’ve got his mouth and eyes.”

“Never got . . . to meet . . . him,” Joey stammered.  “Can you tell me about him?

“Oh, yes, Joey.   I’ve often wondered if we’d ever meet.  But seeing you right here—today?  It’s like finding a needle in a haystack.  Surely Providence brought us together.”

Tears flowing, the two men embraced.