Thank you for letting me tell this story.
I was a waitress at a diner in Edgewater Park, just over the border from Willingboro, NJ. I worked the early morning shift, breakfast into lunch. The morning rush usually consisted of rushed moms in yoga pants, young business folks in suits, and the occasional tourist heading down the interstate.
Then the regulars would start to stream in around 9 a.m. to miss the rush.
The three older siblings who met two or three times a week for our 55+ sunrise special.
The couple who met between her hospital shift and her partner’s tour with Willingboro PD.
And then the various groups of veterans, WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. Each week, they’d meet.
The WWII group was the smallest, and dwindled every few months by one or more. Every Monday at 10 a.m., now down from an eight-top to just three as I write this.
The Korea vets were mostly shy. Same five guys every Thursday, 9:30 to 10 a.m., they’d wander in. In the summer they expanded, grandchildren in tow. Always a fun bunch and, while their tips were low, they were kind and polite. Another bonus, it was always one check. They rotated who paid.
Then we had the Vietnam vets, along with Iraq and Afghanistan vets who assimilated into the group. They always had the private room, anywhere from 12 to 15 people. Women, men, all shades and ages ranging from early 40s to mid-70s. Noon on Fridays. Separate checks. Decent tippers, mostly. Various members would come and go.
Rarely did these veteran groups cross over, but on occasion one or two might wander in, join a table, or at least stop and exchange pleasantries.
Then there was JT.
Never got what his initials stood for, but behind his thick-rimmed glasses, sadness. A disabled vet from Iraq who lost a leg in a firefight, or so Kathy, the other dayshift waitress, told me.
He’d come in almost every day. Same order, pork roll, eggs, and Cooper Sharp on a seeded Kaiser roll. Two, one to eat and one to go. Coffee and OJ. He’d read the paper while sipping his coffee.
We’d exchange pleasantries, weather, politics, price of gas. Nothing personal.
About three months ago, on a Monday, he came in and ordered only one sandwich. I could tell he’d been crying but didn’t want to pry.
As I was refilling his coffee, he spoke.
“My mom died yesterday. She lives in Willingboro with my younger brother, who is mentally challenged. Some family she got, a crip and a looney.”
Trying not to react to his bluntness, I offered my condolences and said the oft-spoken but rarely acted-on line, “If there’s anything I can do, please ask.”
He told me the memorial was the following Saturday at 2 p.m. and asked if I would come. I said I had my daughter, but I’d see if I could stop by.
We didn’t see him for the rest of the week.
Saturday came, and I debated going. Given how long he’d been coming in, and the oddness of the request, I decided to attend, bringing my daughter with me.
The parking lot had a few cars and the hearse. We signed the guest book. Only three other entries.
As we entered, JT came over and thanked us for coming. It was a closed casket. We took a seat, and JT sat next to me.
He said he was afraid no one else was coming and that they might as well start.
I could tell he wanted to say more, so I nudged him, “Tell me a good memory about your mom.”
A small smile.
“We’re a military family. My dad was a Korean Navy vet. My mom was a nurse who got a commission in the Navy after the Korean War. They bought a house in Willingboro in the mid-60s.
My younger brother and I were born in the early ’70s. Our parents were in their 40s.
I had an older brother who died in the last months of Vietnam. Our house was run like a regime. My dad never got over the fact that my mom got an officer’s commission. It got worse after my brother Rick was killed. My dad would go to the VFW and get drunk. On those nights, our mom would give us snacks and tell us not to leave the room. He’d come home, yell at her, then pass out on the couch.”
He paused to gauge my reaction. I think he knew where my mind went.
“Don’t get me wrong, we had a decent upbringing. But my mom always protected us.
I turned 18 and joined the Air Force. Neither were happy. My dad because it wasn’t Navy. My mom because she’d already lost one son.
My training didn’t start until after college. I was in OTS at Maxwell AFB when the packages started coming. Weekly. Socks, cookies she baked, candy bars, a cheery letter with local news, and a five-dollar bill.
I got guff from my classmates, but she won them over when she showed up at graduation with gifts for my whole quad.”
“That’s a good memory,” I said.
He nodded.
“It never stopped. I was assigned to Kirtland in New Mexico, then Nellis in Nevada. I specialized in rescue. Every week, the package came. Still with the $5.
Our team was one of the first deployed to Iraq. Mostly hearts-and-minds work with the locals.
My mom flew out to Las Vegas to see me before I deployed. Sixty-seven years old. Five-hour flight. Saw me for three hours. Flew home that same night.
Two weeks after landing in Camp Stryker, the packages showed up again. With extras.
Along with the $5 came ten singles and a note, “You can bribe the locals with singles.”
I was deployed 8 months before the crash. I was sent to Germany to recover. Two days later, my mom showed up.”
I must have gasped because he paused.
“She showed up for everything. Now you showing up for her means a lot. But it’s 2:30, and we only have until 4, so we should start.”
He stood up.
And turned to see rows of grizzled vets. Some in tight uniforms. Some who clearly needed a shower. But they were there.
Many from the diner.
Many I didn’t know.
But they saw the obituary.
And she had been a commissioned officer in the Navy.
According to protocol,
No soldier is left behind.
About Sit With It: Sit With It is a community storytelling project. These reflections are shared just as they were written, memories, imperfect sentences and all.
About the Author: This story was shared by LaShondra P., whose memories remind us that sometimes the most important moments happen in the most ordinary places.
Sit With It Prompt: Where is the place you go to think? A bench, diner booth, front steps, or somewhere else entirely. Tell us about it.
Submit Your Story: Have a place that holds your memories? Send your Sit With It story (150–500 words) in the comments section and include the location of your “place.”
