I came home from an 11-month deployment to find my family SELLING my grandfather’s house. My mother smiled: “You were NEVER really coming back.” The realtor checked the deed, went pale, then whispered:
“Wait… THIS HOUSE IS YOURS?”
The cab driver checked the rearview mirror three times before we reached Sycamore Street. Not because of me, because of the silence.
Most people coming home for Christmas talked too much. They called relatives, complained about delayed flights, asked where to get decent coffee around O’Hare. I spent the whole $40 ride staring at wet salt stains on the highway barriers while my duffel bag leaned against my knee like a tired dog.
December 23rd, 4:15 p.m. The driver finally cleared his throat near the subdivision entrance. You military?
I looked down at the faded olive drab bag between my boots. Army Corps of Engineers. He nodded slowly like that.
Explained something important. My nephew did 6 months in Qatar, he said. Came home weird for a while.
Kept sleeping with the lights on. I almost smiled at that. Smart man, I said.
The neighborhood looked exactly the same at first glance. Big brick houses, decorative wreaths hanging from oversized windows, inflatable snowmen collapsing sideways on frozen lawns because somebody got lazy with the extension cords. Oakbrook always tried very hard to look expensive without technically becoming rich.
The air smelled like wet pine needles and chimney smoke. Snow clouds were stacking low over the rooftops. Every house glowed gold and soft behind curtains except one, mine.
The driver slowed down in front of the property and checked the address twice. You sure this is it? I didn’t answer right away.
The mailbox was gone, not replaced. Gone. For 26 years, there had been an ugly rusted mailbox Arthur Vance built himself after some teenager smashed the old one during Halloween in 1998.
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