Warm air ruffled his hair, whispering a thousand battles into his thoughts. There had been an explosion – sudden and so loud he felt it down to the marrow of his bones. Immediately alert, he’d fired back with everything he had. Then silence. His adrenaline decreased and the beat of his heart quieted enough to look around. He moved slightly toward his buddy for a fist bump. They deserved at least that celebration here in the small outpost assigned them. There hadn’t been many of them to begin with and now, down to just two, they had bravely carried on. Duty. Honor. Country.
His battle buddy since the beginning of this military journey was immovable. He gave a low whistle between his teeth.
“Jack! Hey, Jack!”
It was then he noticed the brown stain growing on Jack’s chest. He crawled over and cried out, but it was no use. Jack’s eyes were unblinking and his face expressionless.
The report of machine guns echoed. He was alone. And he would fight on.
Memorial Day. It’s not just for picnics.
Image: Etsy
blurred from tiredness. Some of their comrades might have been collegial – others, not so much. But, unlike him, their night had exploded in light and sound and magnificence with the announcement of the ages. Glory! To God! In the highest! A baby was born who would first save the world for all history, then rule for all eternity. History! Eternity!
flecks of light, turning the night into a velvety backdrop. Then the branches of the tree reach lower, and lower still until they brush the ground. 
And in the glittering, gleaming night something amazing begins to happen!
Tiny red, blue, and green berries sprout along the soft green needles. Gradually little bits of corn and pumpkin spring up in concert from the branches; and fruit of all kinds drop from the already laden boughs.
First, little chipmunks, fresh from their winter hibernation, peek up from the snow. Then squirrels: gray, red, and brown chatter to each other as they scamper near. Deer and wolves, friends for the evening, sniff the air and begin to 
munch on the feast. Birds drop down onto the higher branches and lend music to the night when they break from dining on the abundance of the old tree. The quiet of the forest erupts with happy sounds of animals, some very hungry from too many snowy days, as they enjoy the profusion of good food.
Eight quarters. That’s what did it. It was two dollars sucked into a laundromat dryer with nothing to show for them that cracked her final effort to put on her game face. And now, as she sat on a cold bench, holding a large bag of wet laundry and waiting for the bus, a few tears burned her eyes. She blinked quickly to chase them away. 
As she lay in bed the next morning, the events from the previous evening played in her memory. She could almost taste the gingerbread cookies and hot cocoa the old man had brought out while they finished decorating his tree, a tree that rivaled any she’d ever seen. 
Two hours later, I’d not only made a fresh pot, but was more awake than I’d been since my mani-pedi. I’d shown the Sergeant the pictures from my phone, I’d told him everything I’d told McBrennain, and more. I’d even told him how glorious the stranger had been. John D. was a very attentive listener, and I couldn’t seem to stop talking. The coffee didn’t help.
Detective McBrennain showed his badge and stepped across the threshold. I invited him to sit at the kitchen table, made coffee (my policy was no decaf, but he looked like someone who preferred the dark of night to the light of day anyway), and told him my story. I told him about the car, the man with glorious gray eyes, and seeing the same car on a Facebook post of a missing car. I told him the car must have been given a paint job, otherwise – and here I held up my beautifully manicured nails – it had been white. I told him I recognized the car by a triangle of tiny dings on the door handle.
Then he punched in some numbers, tapped once or twice, and tapped again. Handing me my phone, he jumped into the car and started a purring engine. A perfect triangle of tiny dings on the passenger side door handle caught my eye as he pulled into the light afternoon traffic.
hungry. So we sauntered over (I know, what a word; but I believe it matched the extravagance of walking over the threshold of a place using French in its name, don’t you?) to Sissy’s Diner and ordered soup. Again, I know. But we’d just had manicures. What did you expect us to do? Break a nail carving steak? We considered sandwiches, of course; but by the time we would’ve handled the greasy fries that came with them, again, why take chances? And it wasn’t like we ordered chicken broth. We had the clam chowder Sissy’s was famous for. Plus handling a spoon gave each of us an excuse to glance at our newly polished fingertips: Pink Delish for my friend and Why Wine for me.
As we chatted on our way out the door of Sissy’s, I noticed a car just a few parking spaces down that exactly matched my mani-pedi color. What are the odds? We decided to walk (done with the sauntering now that we’d had clam chowder) over and take a hand selfie by the car. I mean, the color match was so unlikely – in our minds, at least – that it deserved a photo.