I think about that every day.
Greg Rhodes was a soldier. A hero, according to the man he dragged two hundred yards under fire. A drunk. An addict. A man who left his six-year-old on a curb.
A man who got sober and stayed away because he didn’t think he deserved to come home.
A man who saved twenty dollars a week for ten years for a son he never expected to see again.
A man who died with that son’s hand on his cheek. Singing.
All of those things were true.
Ezoic
All at once.
Ezoic
Nathan’s leaving for college in August.
He’ll take the jacket. And the guitar. And the flag.
He’ll take Greg’s eyes and Greg’s hands and Greg’s crooked grin. And my smile. And Denise’s chicken soup recipe. And everything Mr. Delgado taught him about pinochle.
And he’ll take the one thing his father gave him in eight weekends at the Starlite Inn on Versailles Road.
