'As a representative of the United States Army, it is my high privilege to present to you this flag'
When Tom had been young, his grandmother lived in an old Victorian three miles from his parent’s home in Columbus, Ohio. It had been a crowded and musty collection of rooms, full of antiques and baked goods and hard candies, Gramma Hobbes spinning stories while she cooked. He’d spent long hours after school there, helping her with the lawn work, house keeping, all the little things that got harder for her as the years slipped by.
And on the mantle, centered above the old fireplace, there was a mahogany box with a glass panel and in it was the flag they had given her when his grandfather had died.
The Hobbes men had a habit of dying young.
She rearranged it sometimes, making sure it was dusted, pressed flush to the edge of the shelf, clucking her tongue as she ran her fingers over the beveled frame. Now, years later, he could remember how she held herself when she looked at it, a little twist to her lips and a spark that made her look younger. He didn’t think it made her happy. It just made her remember a long way back.
Now, sitting in the rec room cross-legged before the bookshelf, Tom was surrounded by picture books and Shel Silverstien collections. If there was anyone else in the room, he’d forgotten, slipped beyond a place where he cared. In his lap was a triangular mahogany box, and American flag carefully folded behind a pane of glass.
He took a breath, gasping a little when he realized how long he’d been holding it. With care, he turned the box over, letting his fingers trace the brass plaque on the back.
Thomas E. Hobbes
August 28th, 1972 - July 14th, 1999
“Oh, Sophie....” he mumbled, years of hurt and guilt and tension rising up through him until it was hard to breathe. “I’m sorry...I’m so...” He sighed deeply, pushing the box out of his lap. “Shit.”
And on the mantle, centered above the old fireplace, there was a mahogany box with a glass panel and in it was the flag they had given her when his grandfather had died.
The Hobbes men had a habit of dying young.
She rearranged it sometimes, making sure it was dusted, pressed flush to the edge of the shelf, clucking her tongue as she ran her fingers over the beveled frame. Now, years later, he could remember how she held herself when she looked at it, a little twist to her lips and a spark that made her look younger. He didn’t think it made her happy. It just made her remember a long way back.
Now, sitting in the rec room cross-legged before the bookshelf, Tom was surrounded by picture books and Shel Silverstien collections. If there was anyone else in the room, he’d forgotten, slipped beyond a place where he cared. In his lap was a triangular mahogany box, and American flag carefully folded behind a pane of glass.
He took a breath, gasping a little when he realized how long he’d been holding it. With care, he turned the box over, letting his fingers trace the brass plaque on the back.
Thomas E. Hobbes
August 28th, 1972 - July 14th, 1999
“Oh, Sophie....” he mumbled, years of hurt and guilt and tension rising up through him until it was hard to breathe. “I’m sorry...I’m so...” He sighed deeply, pushing the box out of his lap. “Shit.”