My great-uncle Nat fought in World War I and was gassed. He survived, and made it home, but was never the same.
He had a little pension, just enough for a frugal existence. He lived in a tiny cabin on the shore of a lake in northern New Jersey. In summers he lived in an even tinier shack on an island just offshore from his cabin. He did oil paintings of the scenes he remembered from Europe, minus the battles and deaths, and of scenes he imagined from other places he wanted to travel (but never could).
We visited him when I was about 14; he let me paddle around the lake in his little rowboat. I think I did a little watercolor on his island (long since lost, if so.) I have one of his oil paintings, of Mt. Fuji, a place he dreamed of visiting.
He was a sweet, gentle, and kind man. He never married; something in him died in the trenches. There are no grandchildren to honor his memory today. So I'm left to speak in the place of the grandchildren he would have loved, alas as imaginary as his travels to Japan.
For Uncle Nat, let's work to create peace, not more lonely old men on little islands in far-off lakes.