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A hammer or a bullet
#WritcoStoryPrompt78
Like hitting a rock with a hammer, life hits us hard sometimes. Tell us a story about a hardship in your life.
The soldiers fired their guns again. There were seven of them standing in formation. The third and final round which tallied the twenty one gun salute pulled me back into my seat. I was somewhere else.
I look down at my crossed legs and my dress, neatly tucked down under the sides of my legs. I study the hem of the black garment and my mind wanders again. This time, back to Ft Campbell, Kentucky. My face was small and round and my eyes fought with the sun searching the deep blue sky for the tiny dot my mother was pointing at "There they are Amanda look!" "your dad" "Wave!" I Wave as high and hard as my little arm would go, jumping up and down as if it would make my wave go further or allow him also-to see me. My other hand held four or five tiny freshly picked Dandelion sunflowers. I picked them for him. I had borrowed innumerable of those little things growing up for him, I was with no doubt' a daddy's girl.
A man fully decked in his Class A's grounded me now as he stood a few feet in front of me. Carefully, he tucked the corners of a flag back into the folds of itself and ceremoniously inspected all three, and again once more before handing it to another with a sharp salute who relieved him with one in likes. Here, I could not help but notice I was not hysterically sobbing and hanging onto a tissue as the other family members' were. My dad's mother and father, his four sisters, my cousins, his brothers; one of which was a drill instructor for the United States Marines and the first and only time i'd ever see him with red eyes. I looked to my big brother who looked straight ahead and clenched his jaw muscles tight. Growing up the youngest - being the ornery one of us three, I knew This was him telling me to pay attention. And I did as the soldier was now directly in front of me. "Ms Granado, on behalf of a grateful nation. He handed it to me and never broke eye contact as he brought his hand to his brow, and then, unwavering; brought it down again in a slow salute.
I do not know why my brothers and I were the only ones not crying at that time. Perhaps it is because of the way we were raised or maybe for me it was simply because I was out of tears by the time this ceremony took place. Whichever, I would later be ridiculed for it amongst a few family members and some friends.
When the time came to lower what remained of my father, my dad' into four freshly carved out walls of dirt and soil, people gathered around to say final goodbyes; one by one people passed by me, an occasional hug from someone I either knew or didn't' only brought to life the fact that over one thousand people were in attendance that day. My father's best friend from high school got one of the shovels from one of the cemetary workers who was filling the hole with dirt and started filling it, himself. I questioned to myself whether he was angry or not because of the way he drove the shade of the shovel into the dirt before tossing it on top of the casket that had finally come to rest in its forever home, at the bottom of that hole.
In my hand, I held onto something that I had kept with me throughout the day. I acquired it that morning. By this time, Casualty officers had seen lots
TO BE CONTINUED
© Granado.A
Like hitting a rock with a hammer, life hits us hard sometimes. Tell us a story about a hardship in your life.
The soldiers fired their guns again. There were seven of them standing in formation. The third and final round which tallied the twenty one gun salute pulled me back into my seat. I was somewhere else.
I look down at my crossed legs and my dress, neatly tucked down under the sides of my legs. I study the hem of the black garment and my mind wanders again. This time, back to Ft Campbell, Kentucky. My face was small and round and my eyes fought with the sun searching the deep blue sky for the tiny dot my mother was pointing at "There they are Amanda look!" "your dad" "Wave!" I Wave as high and hard as my little arm would go, jumping up and down as if it would make my wave go further or allow him also-to see me. My other hand held four or five tiny freshly picked Dandelion sunflowers. I picked them for him. I had borrowed innumerable of those little things growing up for him, I was with no doubt' a daddy's girl.
A man fully decked in his Class A's grounded me now as he stood a few feet in front of me. Carefully, he tucked the corners of a flag back into the folds of itself and ceremoniously inspected all three, and again once more before handing it to another with a sharp salute who relieved him with one in likes. Here, I could not help but notice I was not hysterically sobbing and hanging onto a tissue as the other family members' were. My dad's mother and father, his four sisters, my cousins, his brothers; one of which was a drill instructor for the United States Marines and the first and only time i'd ever see him with red eyes. I looked to my big brother who looked straight ahead and clenched his jaw muscles tight. Growing up the youngest - being the ornery one of us three, I knew This was him telling me to pay attention. And I did as the soldier was now directly in front of me. "Ms Granado, on behalf of a grateful nation. He handed it to me and never broke eye contact as he brought his hand to his brow, and then, unwavering; brought it down again in a slow salute.
I do not know why my brothers and I were the only ones not crying at that time. Perhaps it is because of the way we were raised or maybe for me it was simply because I was out of tears by the time this ceremony took place. Whichever, I would later be ridiculed for it amongst a few family members and some friends.
When the time came to lower what remained of my father, my dad' into four freshly carved out walls of dirt and soil, people gathered around to say final goodbyes; one by one people passed by me, an occasional hug from someone I either knew or didn't' only brought to life the fact that over one thousand people were in attendance that day. My father's best friend from high school got one of the shovels from one of the cemetary workers who was filling the hole with dirt and started filling it, himself. I questioned to myself whether he was angry or not because of the way he drove the shade of the shovel into the dirt before tossing it on top of the casket that had finally come to rest in its forever home, at the bottom of that hole.
In my hand, I held onto something that I had kept with me throughout the day. I acquired it that morning. By this time, Casualty officers had seen lots
TO BE CONTINUED
© Granado.A
