“Look Mommy.” Ally says. “That soldier looks like Daddy.”
My heart lurches then thumps dull and heavy against my rib cage
I scowl at the screen
I love my kitchen
It’s warm and clean and smells of vanilla from the cookies I baked for the kids
They’re sitting at the table doing homework
I’m slicing carrots and listening to the news on the little portable tv which fits snuggly into an alcove on my countertop.
The footage is bumpy as the cameraperson runs to keep up with the crowd
Everything is sandy, brown, and dusty
The buildings look war torn and the cars are all older models than the ones we have here
The reporter says an American soldier stopped a car bomb being driven into our Embassy in Kabul
He’d strode up to the car, yanked the door open and pulled the driver out
He'd seized the cell phone which would have detonated a bomb destined to obliterate the building and everyone in it.
“It’s him Mom.” Frank confirms
We can’t see the soldiers’ face because he is walking away from the camera
I go to the refrigerator and take out a bottle of chardonnay
I pour half a glass and steady my hand as I take a sip.
His shoulders are wide and slightly stooped
His stride is purposeful yet graceful and his head is tilted to the left
I study your gait much longer than I need to
I’d know that walk anywhere.
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