Tart Tangerine #2

February 22, 1991. That was the day I became a man.

No, not in the sexual sense, as I was only 12 years old. No, that was the day I became the man of the house. Because that was the day we got the letter.

It was a nice letter. It came in a crisp white envelope. It was hand-addressed, as was the note inside. I didn’t know that at the time, because my mother wouldn’t let me see it, but I caught a glimpse of it once, later, after she had read it. The paper was of good quality, thick. It looked like it would absorb ink, not streaking or smearing. All I really noticed of it was the dark blue circle on the top.

Funny how the little details stick with you. I remember the man who delivered the letter, though I couldn’t tell you his name. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Dad, and in fancy dress browns. I thought at first it might have been Dad, come home early. When I saw the blurry silhouette through the frosted glass of the front door, I went running with a cry of joy. But when I opened the door, prepared to fling my arms around Dad in a hug, I found only a stranger.

Mom was in the kitchen making some coffee. She called out to ask who it was. I said it was someone from Dad’s work. She said she’d be right there, and the next thing I remember was the sound of breaking china as her coffee cup hit the floor. I spun around, and she was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, one hand clasped over her mouth. She didn’t need to read the letter in the man’s hands to know what it said. She could read it in his eyes.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She told me to go to my room. I started to argue, but she looked at me, and I could tell this was not the time. But I didn’t go to my room. I stopped in the hall and peeked around the corner as she approached the man. He said something to her, something quiet.

Something solemn.

To this day I still wish I knew what it was. It was only later that I would hear similar things from relatives and friends of Dad’s. Later, on green grass, under a too bright sun, the blue, white and red so bright they stung my eyes. Or that’s what I told myself.

But that was a different day, a later day. All that mattered was this day – the day we got the handwritten note from the President telling us that my Dad was one of the 246 men and women to give what Abraham Lincoln called the last full measure of devotion.

February 22, 1991. That was the day I became a man.