Memories Never Fade
With the morning sun at his back, Paul Horne smoothed out his uniform and straightened the brass-colored sergeant chevrons pinned to his collar before wrapping his knuckles against the screen door. His hands moved with military precision, a testament to the habits ingrained during his enlistment and years of service. However, there was no need to knock; this place was his second home, but good manners prevailed.
A moment later, he heard the shuffling of feet and pulled open the screen door.
His grandmother left the kitchen, wiping her hands on a white apron. Her eyes watered, and a smile washed over her face when she turned the corner. The faded blue dress with yellow sunflowers was familiar, and her slippers brushed against the oak floor with each step. The small woman hugged him on the threshold. Her arms could barely reach halfway around. The embrace and the scent of her kitchen, a blend of warm spices and freshly baked goods was a soothing balm.
“About time you stopped by,” she said. “I missed you.”
She barely reached Paul’s chest, and her perfume reminded him of the flowers in his mother’s backyard. All the stress he had carried for months was pushed aside with one simple hug, and the tightness in his chest vanished as his shoulders finally relaxed. His grandmother was a refuge, a sanctuary against the chaos he'd faced overseas.
“I missed you, too, Grandma.” Tears rolled down his cheeks as the sudden dam of emotions threatened to overwhelm him.
She stepped back and reached up to wipe his face. Then, arms that had rocked him to sleep as a child pulled him down. Instead of the usual peck on his forehead, she kissed the new scar under his eye before releasing her hold.
“Are you okay?”
The inquiry into the marks he carried, both visible and hidden, was not surprising. His grandmother rarely missed anything. “I’m okay. Now.”
“You always were a horrible liar. Have you been home?”
Paul shook his head. “I was going to surprise Mom and Dad, but I wanted to see you first.”
She gave a short chuckle. “Well, you are my favorite grandson.” “I’m your only grandson.” Paul laughed at her favorite joke.
“That’s why you’re my favorite.” She cleared her throat. “I have something for you.
Come on in.”
The urge to continue was strong. “I have to get going. I’ll come back this afternoon if that’s okay?”
“No problem, dear. Hold on.” She entered the house and quickly returned with a red and green tin box. His grandmother had used that same container all his life after baking. It bore the marks of countless desserts, each a symbol of her love.
“Here you go. I just made your favourite cookies. Bring them with you and make sure you share them, young man.” Her stern words were followed with a sly wink.
“Yes, ma’am.” He smirked when a memory surfaced. As a boy, he had eaten half the tin of date squares while riding home on his bike. Paul’s mother had been furious, and two decades later, that story was often retold.
His grandmother laughed. She understood and always had. “You better get home. Go. Do your surprises.”
Paul stepped forward and gave his grandmother another embrace. “Love you, Gram. I’ll be back later.”
“Don’t worry about me. Everything’s fine here. I love you, too, Pauly. Tell your mom and dad I love them, as well.”
“Will do.” He bent and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“You better go before I start crying. After you talk with your parents, come back here, and we’ll talk. We have a lot to catch up on. Welcome home.”
At the black Chevy truck, Paul waved goodbye. In response, she flicked the front porch light on and off, as always. He climbed behind the wheel, honked, and blew her a kiss before leaving—the same gesture he had done for nearly three decades. The cookie tin sat beside him on the center console, and he drummed his fingers on top to the music. His heart had lightened despite the tears.
He turned right at Bloomer’s Flower Shop, avoiding the main streets downtown, and took the side roads. His mother should be out in the gardens before the day grew warm while his dad puttered around the garage. The streets were a journey through his past, a reminder of the winding pathways he'd taken in his youth on his bike, then later in his first car. He loved that blue Ford Mustang, almost as much as the truck. Each turn carried the echoes of laughter and adventures long gone—a lifetime ago.
Paul’s fingers brushed a small, polished silver pendant hidden against his chest. The piece of shrapnel had nearly taken his life. IEDs had killed half his section while patrolling a highway in the Helmand province, and the thin scar under his left eye was a constant reminder of how close Paul came to joining his friends in Valhalla.
Paul parked two homes away and turned off the truck. He walked up the sidewalk with the cookie tin in one hand and an army duffel bag in the other. He had guessed correctly. His mother was weeding the front garden, lost in the aroma of rich earth and growing things. It was a sanctuary of tranquility, a stark contrast to the chaos he'd known overseas, that his mother took solace in daily.
“Excuse me, but I seem to be lost.”
His mom looked over her shoulder, and Paul noted her puffy, bloodshot eyes. She burst into tears while crossing the lawn in three steps and threw herself into his arms, crying.
“Oh, my God! My baby boy is home. How? When?”
Paul dropped the duffel bag and held on to the container with one hand while picking up his mom with the other. He spun her in a circle before letting her down.
“I’m back a little early.” “Paul!”
His dad came around the corner. The dark circles under his eyes and hollowed cheekbones were too prominent for Paul to ignore. His father froze for a second in shock before his jaw closed, and his feet finally moved. Seconds later, they embraced, crying simultaneously. This was the moment that helped get him through the times he felt like curling into a ball, screaming at the world. It was a reunion of hearts, a healing balm for wounds too deep to see. The love of his family. It filled his soul and made the life of a soldier possible.
“When did you get in?” His mom wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. She couldn’t stop smiling.
“Late last night. I wanted to surprise you.”
His dad chuckled. “You certainly did. Your commanding officer called yesterday and—”
“It was obviously a mistake.” His parents always interrupted each other, and today was no exception. Without warning, Paul’s mother gasped and stepped back, hand clutching her chest. Her eyes remained fixed on the container. “Where did you get that?” she whispered.
After holding up the red and green tin, Paul smiled. “Sorry, this wasn’t my first stop. I went to Grandma’s house.”
“Oh, my God…” His mother collapsed into a crumpled heap on the lawn, shaking.
Shocked, Paul stepped forward to catch her, but it was too late. He rested a hand on her shoulder as he knelt. “What’s wrong? Mom?”
His dad turned white as a sheet. He also couldn’t take his eyes off the cookie tin. “We didn’t want to tell you this far into your tour, son, but your grandmother passed away a few weeks ago. There was a house fire, and she couldn’t leave in time.”
His father's confession was like a lightning bolt from a cloudless sky—unexpected. Paul chuckled to hold back the shadows that followed him for the last four months. “Nice try. I was just there six minutes ago. She’s fine.”
His mother met his eyes and shook her head. “We are not joking, Paul. Your Grandmother died from smoke inhalation fifteen days ago.”
He could still smell his grandmother’s perfume on his uniform. He stared at the tin, and Paul didn’t know what to say as he removed the lid. Neatly stacked under the waxed paper were dozens of fresh chocolate chip cookies; they smelled delicious. He showed them to his parents.
“They’re still warm. Grandma had just baked and handed them to me. She wants me to come back and visit.”
Paul’s mother picked up a cookie and took a bite. The chocolate stretched in a thin line before snapping like a delicate thread, and she muttered. “They taste just like hers.”
He spoke about what happened and described Gram's light blue dress and apron. He helped his mom to her feet, and Paul realized she was in shock. Seeing his mother in that condition twisted his stomach into knots, and he felt helpless. His mother rubbed the scar on his cheek. The faint residue of pink lipstick was transferred to her thumb.
“What’s going on?” Her voice barely reached his ears.
The situation was making Paul’s head spin, and he stumbled. The lid fell at their feet, forgotten.
His father gasped. “Come with me, son.”
Paul passed the container to his mom’s shaking hands. “Everything will be okay, Mom. I love you.”
“I—I …” She couldn’t finish the sentence. His mother clutched the tin tight against her chest, and her sobs followed him down the street.
At the truck, he had trouble with the passenger door; it had always stuck. Paul’s father had to open it from the inside.
“Is Mom okay? What’s happening?”
His dad held up one finger. “Just hold on.”
With one look in his father’s eyes, Paul waited. He had seen that expression all his life and knew when to push it or not. They turned left onto Maple Street a few minutes later, and his father parked outside the house.
Paul’s jaw dropped when he finished processing what his eyes were trying to tell him.
The tightness rushed back into his chest, and his left eye twitched as Paul stared out the passenger window. A sense of foreboding washed over him, and a feeling made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
“No!”
It was a surreal tableau, a scene from a horrible nightmare. Paul checked to make sure he was awake. Once a bastion of memories and refuge, his grandmother's house lay in ruins, a testament to the fire’s fury. The walls had collapsed into the basement from the blaze. The once pristine lawn was scorched from the intense heat, and the lush garden was ash. Eight-foot blue-wired fencing surrounded the property to keep everyone out, and the burnt smell lingered in the air like a shroud of sorrow that clung to the earth.
Paul’s forehead rested against the passenger window as his heart pounded in double time.
A wave of emotions threatened to overwhelm and bury him; outrage, sorrow, anger, and despair warred for dominance. The demons inside howled like the cries of his fallen brothers, drowning out the present and reality.
The lurking darkness nearly swept him away, but when a firm hand squeezed Paul’s shoulder like a lifeline, he returned.
“This isn’t possible,” Paul whispered. “I was just here…”
When the floral scent stirred from his uniform, his jaw unclenched, and a gentle smile made the corners of Paul’s mouth twitch. The faint perfume was a whisper from the past, a reminder of his grandmother's presence. It was a comforting fragrance, a silent witness to their bond, and it eased the tightness in his chest.
Paul’s trembling, calloused hand pressed against the passenger window in farewell.
“There’s something else I have to tell you, son.” His father’s hand dropped from Paul’s shoulder to rest on the passenger seat.
The moment stretched for an eternity, and it took a heroic effort to look away, but he eventually met his father’s eyes. “Yes?”
“We got a call yesterday from your commanding officer. We know about the roadside bomb,” his father’s voice filled the truck cab with sympathy.
“Yeah.” Paul’s hand went to the pendant on his chest and nodded. “That was a close one.”
“No, son. It was not close.” Tears rolled down his father’s cheeks, making Paul’s chest ache. “It was fatal.”
It took a second to notice how his father’s hand rested on the truck seat below him. “I don’t understand …”
“That makes two of us, but I’m grateful for this moment. Your mother and I will always love you.” A shaking finger pointed out the passenger window. “I think someone is waiting for you.”
In the blink of an eye, things were different.
The gardens were now full of early spring flowers, and the grass was short and recently trimmed. Sparrows chirped while darting in and out of the white hibiscus. Nothing had changed since Paul had played here as a little boy. Remnants of his rope swing still hung from the high branches of the towering elm, but the board was long gone. Sitting on the front porch, his grandmother waved to them both. A small table between the wicker chairs held two glasses of iced tea and a plate piled high with cookies.
“Don’t worry about your mother, Paul. I’ll take care of her.” Paul found himself standing outside the truck, but the door never opened. His father rolled down the window. “Give Hazel our love.”
Understanding, Paul reached under his uniform and removed the identification tags with the shrapnel piece. He passed them through the window. “I don’t need these anymore, do I?”
His father remained silent and shook his head, clutching the tags in a white-knuckled grip.
Paul turned toward the porch light and took a step when the sweet scent of lilacs filled his being. With each pace, he voice faded. “Say goodbye to Mom. I love you too, Dad.”
