I got to bring him home today, for a little while.

Such a small, heavy box to be all that's left of his poor, battered body.  I can almost scratch his permanently itchy back--except he's in that damned box.  I can almost taste the coffee on his mustache when I kiss him goodbye in the morning--except he's in that box.

But he's home from the hospital, now.  Tomorrow, we take him down to Jefferson Barracks, where he will stay until they tear the place down--presumably well past our lifetimes, when that happens.  Next Friday morning, Kevin will get the military honors he wants so much, and he'll receive his father's flag, and I'll listen to Taps rising into the October sky the way it did when we buried my mother in '94.

Some day, I won't miss him this way.  Some day, I'll be used to not having him love me.  Some day, his pictures will make me smile without having to reach for the Kleenex box.

Some day.  Just not today.

Blue October

Burnished brass notes
carry the rasp of flag-draped grief
into October’s cerulean vault.

Along the afternoon breeze,
a single orange butterfly tumbles south.