“I’m not bringing it.”
“Bring it.”
David frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I know you.”
“That is rarely a sentence leading somewhere good.”
“You’ll throw it away because it makes you angry.”
“Probably.”
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Decide later what it means.”
David became quiet.
Nadine always did this.
Walked around the emotion until she found the part he had hidden from himself.
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“And David?”
“Yes?”
“I mean it.”
“What?”
“Come home afterward.”
He smiled.
“I will.”
At 13:43, Hayes Leadership Hall stood beneath a cold Virginia sky with a dark cloth covering its new bronze sign.
Soldiers formed rows across the courtyard.
Current.
Former.
Officers.
NCOs.
Families.
David stood inside the adjacent building wearing his Army Green Service Uniform for one of the final times.
His jacket fit slightly tighter than five years ago.
He blamed laundry.
Nadine blamed pie.
Rows of ribbons covered the left side of his chest.
Bronze Star Medal with oak-leaf cluster.
Purple Heart.
Meritorious Service Medal.
Army Commendation Medal.
Army Achievement Medal.
Good Conduct.
Campaign medals.
Service ribbons.
Combat Infantryman Badge.
Master Parachutist Badge.
None of them mattered to his seventeen-year-old son Malik, who stood behind him trying to straighten David’s tie.
“You’re choking me.”
“You made me do this at prom.”
“You deserved it.”
“You said I looked handsome.”
“You did after your sister fixed everything.”
Malik tightened the knot.
David glared in the mirror.
“Retirement means I can ground you without consulting regulations.”
“Mom outranks you at home.”
“Unfortunately.”
His daughter, twenty-year-old Simone, entered wearing a navy dress beneath a winter coat.
She looked at David.
Then immediately began crying.
“No.”
David pointed.
“No.”
“I’m not.”
“You clearly are.”
“My eyes are cold.”
“We’re indoors.”
Simone hugged him anyway.
David closed his eyes.
His baby girl had been born six days before his first combat deployment.
He had held her for two nights.
Then boarded a plane.
Now she was in college studying nursing.
Time had behaved badly.
Nadine appeared in the doorway.
David looked at her.
Twenty-three years of marriage.
Three deployments.
Four houses.
Eight PCS moves.
A miscarriage they almost never discussed.
Two children.
One terrifying call from Germany when David had been wounded.
Hundreds of nights sleeping alone.
Hundreds of mornings rebuilding normality.
She wore emerald green.
His favorite.
She smiled.
“You clean up.”
“Occasionally.”
Then she looked at the uniform.
Her expression changed.
Not sadness exactly.
History.
She adjusted one ribbon unnecessarily.
“You ready?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“That’s what Bryant said.”
“She’s smarter than you.”
“Everyone is very comfortable today.”
Nadine touched his cheek.
“You don’t have to know who you are tomorrow.”