My hero didn't speak.

To Grandpa, and to all the men and women who have sacrificed to keep our country free.

He saw himself as every man. Not a hero, just one of thousands of men who did their duty. Today, we call people heroes who do unique and extraordinary acts of bravery against astronomical odds. For my grandfather, there was no unique heroism. There was only go. There was only do. He came from a generation in which every man was a hero, every man denying debilitating fear; marching, shooting, dying.

And so, because he was just every man, my hero didn’t speak about his heroism. But sometimes words aren’t necessary. 

Somewhere along the way, my grandpa put his purple heart away. But he never put away a pool ball too soon. Or a cribbage peg. Or a crayon or any of the hundred tiny origami birds I made him. He wasn’t a talker, my grandpa, but in his silence, he told me about being a hero. He told me about what he valued.

Grandpa didn’t tell me, but I know what happened in the war. He landed in Normandy on D-Day. He went to Africa and fought in the Battle of the Bulge. He stepped on a land mine that blew off his heel. He lived with that injury for the rest of his life. But he didn’t speak about it, even when it was hurting him. 

Grandpa was a fabulous woodworker. He made train sets and boats and my toy box. Once, when I was little, he helped me draw a bunny on a piece of plywood and cut it out with his jigsaw. He helped me paint it yellow, because all the best bunnies are yellow. My hero didn’t speak about his heroism. But he rejoiced in small victories. He valued every moment.

I remember grandpa sitting in his hospital bed, oxygen threaded through his nose, machines beeping around him. He said, “I’m ready. It’s time to go. What’s the holdup?” Grandpa never backed down from a challenge. My hero was brave. He knew when to let go.

Through the war, through the pain of his injury, through years of hard work and the death of his wife, grandpa never let life get in the way of living. He valued every triumph, every piano recital, every diploma, every origami bird and wooden bunny.

Even in his last moments, grandpa wouldn’t talk about the war—about the purple heart, about the heroism of every man.

But in the end, it never mattered. My hero didn’t speak, but he lived. And that was more than enough.