Connor liked to dance. He’d been dancing his buns off ever since his oldest sister’s wedding back in the 1990’s. He was all about the Macarena and loved that pseudo Latin beat. Any opportunity he had now to show off his incredible dance moves he took full advantage of. He’d trained in high school and college and was a master of many dance forms. He could salsa and meringue and even some hip-hop stuff. He could swing dance and foxtrot and even waltz if the moment called for it. Dancing was his love. All thanks to that strange Macarena song his Aunt Kathy made him dance to.
This is where I’m stopping this story.
My imagination is one cruel son of a bitch. I was literally about to write about Conner in a hospital bed. I was considering having his legs blown off in Afghanistan by a road side bomb. Either way, I was about to be very cruel to this fictional character.
That doesn’t seem right for some reason. There’s no reason to bring anybody down on a Wednesday. Plus, it just didn’t seem right to write about something that likely has really happened to some poor soul and it would be insensitive of me to try and express the pain and hardship someone wounded in such a way would experience. I’m not the right person for that story.
I will instead talk about something a little more worthwhile today. Perhaps we should take a look at http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/ . This organization has dedicated itself to the development and empowerment of our brave soldiers that have been wounded in combat or through their service in the US Military. So guys like my fictional Connor have a second chance at an active and fulfilling lifestyle.
I think that’s a far better story than anything I could make up.