My Father Ordered Me to Strip Off My Uniform at His Cookout

the smell anyway. Wet concrete, blood, diesel. One of those men had tried to speak and only one word came out. Water. I remembered that.

The backyard was dead silent now.

My father’s beer had dropped to his side.

“That’s one of the reasons,” Raymond said quietly, “he’s wearing that patch.”

I added, because I was suddenly sick of letting my father own the continue reading …