My Mother Told Me I Could Not Wear My Uniform At The Memorial Until A Veteran Stood Up

the table. “I’ll think about it,” I said. Mom nodded.

“That’s fair.”

The next morning, I went to the house. Not for my mother. For Dad.

The Mercer house at the end of Sycamore Road. Wraparound porch. Blue shutters.

The oak tree bare for winter. Mom opened the door before I knocked. “Coffee?” she asked.

“Is it Dad’s recipe?”

A faint smile. “Undrinkable?”

“Then continue reading …