The rifles cracked in sequence and the sound punched through my rib cage with a violent force. Mia used to clap whenever fireworks started before burying her face in Terrence’s side, and for one insane second, I expected to find her there. Instead, there was only the flag folding, a crisp and exact ceremony that made a whole life look incredibly small.
When the sergeant major placed the flag in my hands, the cloth felt heavier than any material had any right to be. I heard the formal words about a grateful nation and honorable service, but all I could think about was that Terrence had never even served in uniform. He was a civilian architect who made pancakes shaped like stars and cried at sad movies, yet the Army was honoring him because he was mine.
My neighbor, Mrs. Gable, pressed a foil covered casserole dish into my hands after the service like it was a sacred relic. Mia’s teacher held both my wrists and told me, voice shaking, that my daughter had once spent a full recess explaining why kittens should be allowed to go to school. I laughed for a brief second and then immediately hated myself for finding a moment of humor in a graveyard.