I’ll have to beg your pardon. I don’t ususally write so many military-themed pieces. Maybe its because of the Iran War, but I’ve been finding more of these pieces in my archive prescient.
This one was especially difficult for me to pen. When it comes to state sanctioned conflict, it’s hard to let go and trust the reader. I do so enjoy a sermon. I had to rework this piece a few times to give the image without the meaning. It’s a vignette of sorts.
There is a woman standing in a room with a bed, one side of it isn’t warm in the mornings anymore.
The closet has clothes in it that will gather dust.
Her daughter has a picture of her with strong arms wrapped around her on her phone, a final memory of a man whose face will drift from memory. He lifts her never again.
A little boy sits in the living room. He oils an adult-sized baseball glove that won’t catch a ball thrown by the boy’s fingers. The thick knitting blurs.
The boy looks like his father, the daughter has his stubbornness. His likeness is now a folded flag.
His wife touches a cold uniform with Chevrons on the sleeve. The jacket will only be worn one more time.
The boy has a patch that he holds in his fist when he tries to sleep. His hand hurts. He’s known his father isn’t coming home for three days. He stares blankly at the wall and outlines the lettering on the patch with his fingers.
Semper Fidelis.
Storied By Josh 