T. Keane
05-11-2009, 02:26 AM
Advice/critique/comments encouraged. Thank you.
All the Small Things
How could the sun shine on her face like that? How could it violate me in this fashion, warming all around me, spreading its life and health when all I wanted was to wither? She rolled over and sighed lightly, the cursed light illuminating her near-black curls to a radiant brunette. She was all that I had ever dreamed for, and soon this dream might end forever. “Papa,” I felt a tug on the comforter “Papa, we made breffast for you.” I flopped to the other side to see my daughter, Jill, staring me dead in the face. At this distance, it was as looking into a mirror; her eyes were the exact color as mine, bright blue, almost gray. Although her hair was a bit longer than my crew cut, it retained the same dusky blond tone. She was yet another thing that this new day has brought me closer to losing.
“Okay, honey. Tell Grandpa we’ll be there in minute,” I replied in a groggy slur. Nodding furiously, she ran out of the room and down the stairs, tiny feet pounding the floorboards. I woke my wife gently, not wanting to cause her any discomfort (she could be a beast in the morning.) “Michelle, Honey? C’mon, Dad and Jill made breakfast for us.” I shook her shoulder lightly and smiled when she glared at me accusingly through half-lidded eyes.
“Mrrrrrh. Five more minutes,” She rolled to the other side and threw the comforter over her mussed hair.
“It’s already 10:30, we’ve slept in enough.”
“Ple-e-e-ease,” she mockingly pleaded. I smiled and pulled the comforter off of her relaxed frame, smoothing back her hair and kissing the top of her head. My heart sank when I thought that this might be one of those little things you flash on as you’re bleeding out in the sand. I finally wrestled her out of bed and slowly got dressed in a polo shirt and faded blue jeans. I was sure going to miss my civilian clothes, I always did.
“Mornin’, Pop,” I hollered into the kitchen as I stumbled down the stairs. I felt infinitely more at ease when the smell of bacon hit me at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mornin’, Jesse. Sleep well?” My dad smiled at me and helped Jill flip another pancake.
“Not really, as well as I could have at any rate.”
“Still thinkin’ ‘bout shippin’ off?” I nodded at him and poured coffee into my favorite chipped green mug. I might as well enjoy it. For the next year it’ll be tin cups filled with that not-so-homemade brew the Marines like to call coffee.
“What are we doing today, Papa?”
…
We spent the day at the park, just the four of us, just the little things. I sat with my dad as Michelle played with Jill on the swings. The cursed sun sank low in the sky, inching its way down, counting off the minutes like a vile hourglass. Only eighteen hours left. That might be all I have to hug my daughter, kiss my wife, shake hands with my old man. Eighteen hours to forgive and forget. Eighteen hours to move on before letting go.
“You, know that I’m proud of ya, right Jesse?” My father’s voice shattered my brooding thoughts.
“Y-yeah, Pop, I know.”
“I couldn’t ask for anything better for ya, you have a beautiful life here, just take care of yerself over there,” we had one of those awkward silences, neither of us knowing what to say, how to comfort one another. What could be said?
“I could have been a chef, dad. I could have been an accountant, hell I could have been an astronaut,” I wiped away the shameful tears starting to well in my eyes. “You wouldn’t have to bury me if I was a chef.”
“Don’t talk like that. I was in the service for thirty-seven years, and I’m still sittin’ here talking with you.” He put his hand on my back and we sat in silence for what seemed like the clichéd eternity.
“Pop,” I finally muttered.
“Yeah, Jess.”
“I think… I think that we need to go.”
“Sure, Jess, sure.”
…
Shined boots, uniform brushed clean, shaven face with nicks and cuts, bags packed. I hug my daughter, kiss my wife, and shake hands with my old man. I can’t see the sun from here, but I know the damned thing is still counting down, still laughing. I sometimes wonder why I chose this lifestyle. Money? Glory? Pride? My father’s respect? Possibly. More importantly, I chose this life not just to protect my family, not just to protect my own sense of justice, but to protect America. I signed on to protect the dreams and ignorance of the middle class working American, the Average Joe. But do they really need me? I’m just one man, just one part of the few, the proud, the regretful. As I step onto the plane, I look back across security at my father, proudly saluting me, my wife holding my beautiful little girl, both with tear stained faces and I think to myself; Damn, I could have been a chef.
All the Small Things
How could the sun shine on her face like that? How could it violate me in this fashion, warming all around me, spreading its life and health when all I wanted was to wither? She rolled over and sighed lightly, the cursed light illuminating her near-black curls to a radiant brunette. She was all that I had ever dreamed for, and soon this dream might end forever. “Papa,” I felt a tug on the comforter “Papa, we made breffast for you.” I flopped to the other side to see my daughter, Jill, staring me dead in the face. At this distance, it was as looking into a mirror; her eyes were the exact color as mine, bright blue, almost gray. Although her hair was a bit longer than my crew cut, it retained the same dusky blond tone. She was yet another thing that this new day has brought me closer to losing.
“Okay, honey. Tell Grandpa we’ll be there in minute,” I replied in a groggy slur. Nodding furiously, she ran out of the room and down the stairs, tiny feet pounding the floorboards. I woke my wife gently, not wanting to cause her any discomfort (she could be a beast in the morning.) “Michelle, Honey? C’mon, Dad and Jill made breakfast for us.” I shook her shoulder lightly and smiled when she glared at me accusingly through half-lidded eyes.
“Mrrrrrh. Five more minutes,” She rolled to the other side and threw the comforter over her mussed hair.
“It’s already 10:30, we’ve slept in enough.”
“Ple-e-e-ease,” she mockingly pleaded. I smiled and pulled the comforter off of her relaxed frame, smoothing back her hair and kissing the top of her head. My heart sank when I thought that this might be one of those little things you flash on as you’re bleeding out in the sand. I finally wrestled her out of bed and slowly got dressed in a polo shirt and faded blue jeans. I was sure going to miss my civilian clothes, I always did.
“Mornin’, Pop,” I hollered into the kitchen as I stumbled down the stairs. I felt infinitely more at ease when the smell of bacon hit me at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mornin’, Jesse. Sleep well?” My dad smiled at me and helped Jill flip another pancake.
“Not really, as well as I could have at any rate.”
“Still thinkin’ ‘bout shippin’ off?” I nodded at him and poured coffee into my favorite chipped green mug. I might as well enjoy it. For the next year it’ll be tin cups filled with that not-so-homemade brew the Marines like to call coffee.
“What are we doing today, Papa?”
…
We spent the day at the park, just the four of us, just the little things. I sat with my dad as Michelle played with Jill on the swings. The cursed sun sank low in the sky, inching its way down, counting off the minutes like a vile hourglass. Only eighteen hours left. That might be all I have to hug my daughter, kiss my wife, shake hands with my old man. Eighteen hours to forgive and forget. Eighteen hours to move on before letting go.
“You, know that I’m proud of ya, right Jesse?” My father’s voice shattered my brooding thoughts.
“Y-yeah, Pop, I know.”
“I couldn’t ask for anything better for ya, you have a beautiful life here, just take care of yerself over there,” we had one of those awkward silences, neither of us knowing what to say, how to comfort one another. What could be said?
“I could have been a chef, dad. I could have been an accountant, hell I could have been an astronaut,” I wiped away the shameful tears starting to well in my eyes. “You wouldn’t have to bury me if I was a chef.”
“Don’t talk like that. I was in the service for thirty-seven years, and I’m still sittin’ here talking with you.” He put his hand on my back and we sat in silence for what seemed like the clichéd eternity.
“Pop,” I finally muttered.
“Yeah, Jess.”
“I think… I think that we need to go.”
“Sure, Jess, sure.”
…
Shined boots, uniform brushed clean, shaven face with nicks and cuts, bags packed. I hug my daughter, kiss my wife, and shake hands with my old man. I can’t see the sun from here, but I know the damned thing is still counting down, still laughing. I sometimes wonder why I chose this lifestyle. Money? Glory? Pride? My father’s respect? Possibly. More importantly, I chose this life not just to protect my family, not just to protect my own sense of justice, but to protect America. I signed on to protect the dreams and ignorance of the middle class working American, the Average Joe. But do they really need me? I’m just one man, just one part of the few, the proud, the regretful. As I step onto the plane, I look back across security at my father, proudly saluting me, my wife holding my beautiful little girl, both with tear stained faces and I think to myself; Damn, I could have been a chef.