I never imagined my mornings would be spent limping around the Washington Monument, trash bag in one hand and grabber in the other, but here I am. Each day before the tourists arrive, I show up—knee brace strapped on, old army hoodie zipped up, and a busted ankle slowing me down. Bottles, cigarette butts, food wrappers… I’ve cleaned worse in combat zones.
I started doing it for myself—it gave me purpose again, a quiet sense that I was still serving something greater than me. But it wasn’t long before people began to notice. Some nodded in silent respect. Others whispered assumptions—community service, down on my luck. One morning, I found an envelope under a bench labeled only “FOR YOU.” I stared at it, unsure if it was meant for me… or just more trash. I haven’t opened it yet.