Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
The green military seabag sat on the porch near the swing, its canvas heavy and stained from the transit from Okinawa. It was the only thing I had brought back with me, and it was the only thing that had not been touched by the transaction on Maggie Street.
I walked back up the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my boots. The salt breeze was coming in stronger now, carrying the smell of the marshes and the distant Gulf.
I sat on the wooden porch swing, the chain creaking slightly as it took my weight. I had built the frame myself before my deployment, using heavy cedar timbers that had weathered to a soft, silver grey.
The house was quiet, secure, and entirely mine. The shadow of my father and my brother was gone from the rooms, replaced by the clean smell of fresh paint and the steady weight of the new brass lock.
I adjusted my collar one last time, then let my hands rest on the wooden arm of the swing. The light was almost gone, leaving only a thin band of orange across the western sky.
The house is exactly where it belongs, and so am I.
I sat on the porch swing, listening to the quiet evening breeze through the pines.
