Freedom’s what it’s all about.

The disappearing afternoon had prompted an idle argument between my father and I. He believed in the war in Iraq. I did not. And so the conversation slunk back and forth until we were left sipping our lattes and contemplating the comers and goers of English Bay in an irritable silence.

“Beautiful ain’t it?” a voice from the bench to our right interjected.

We couldn’t be sure whether the twitchy red-faced man was referring to the dry September sunset or the half carved soapstone eagle that was beginning to surface beneath his knife and deft fingers.

“Ya know, only thing I ever carve is eagles?” his voice was hoarse and quavered a little. His hands were worn yet steady as they gently held the ever materializing eagle. His knife wove up and down, in and out.

“Really?” One of us finally offered.

“Freedom,” he stated, momentarily setting down his project and stealing a swig of beer from within the folds of his ragged jacket. “Yessir.  Freedom’s what it’s all about.”

We politely nodded.

“But, ya know,” he continued, “there ain’t much of it.”

“Mmmm,” was our cautious response.

“Precious,” he murmured. He drew the soapstone back into his hands and his knife returned to its calm rhythm. Up and down, in and out.

My father and I continued to sit in silence when an old Vietnamese couple with their grandson in tow shuffled by. Our eagle carver saw them too and rose from his bench to greet them. “Hello, hello. Such a beautiful day!”

“Yes,” they smiled back. He gazed after the threesome until they disappeared around the corner. He resumed his seat and his hands returned to his eagle. Up and down, in and out.

“Freedom,” he whispered.

He began to speak of war in Vietnam; he spoke of young boys on the ground with sticks and rocks, himself in a helicopter looming above with machine guns. He paused to look at us.

“They didn’t stand a chance,” his bloodshot eyes welled over. His hands continued to work.

My father and I let our eyes return to the sunset away from his tears.

“It was nasty.” He began to scrape more fiercely at his eagle.

“Nam was death. Nothing but death. Death from my fingers, these hands,” he shook them at us, at the afternoon sky until the eagle caught his eye again and his knife resumed its work up and down, in and out.

My father and I sat still, looking ahead aware of the knife tracing its shape, absorbing his frustration.

“My orders,” he whispered glancing again toward us.

“My orders,” his voice was intense this time.

“Mine.” He jutted the handle of his knife toward his chest and looked directly at us. We nodded.

He stood up and thrust his eagle under our noses.

“Freedom,” he said hefting the eagle from hand to hand, his red eyes intense “Heavy ain’t it?”

He turned abruptly and was gone. My father and I sat there against the fading light and sipped our lattes. The silence heavy with our thoughts.