The Fortress at the Graveside

Something happened at my father’s funeral that no one expected.
Not the neighbors who came out of obligation.
Not the relatives who whispered behind gloved hands.
And certainly not my sister, who believed she still knew exactly how this story would end.

The sound of the bugle cut through the gray Ohio air with surgical precision. Every note of Taps seemed designed to split the heart into exact, measured pieces. The rain wasn’t falling so much as pressing down, a steady, soaking drizzle that found its way through wool and leather alike. Mud clung to the cemetery ground like it intended to keep what it swallowed.

I stood at attention beside my father’s casket.

My back was straight. My chin was level. My hands were still.

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