american flag.

People thought they were mother and daughter.

And they could have been. One woman’s hair was graying and wrinkles were appearing on her face. Their eyes, similar shades of blue, sparkled in the same way. They spoke the same, even.

Ten years of living together will do that to you.

They sat across from each other, maintaining a façade they had to keep up because the younger woman donned a military uniform, the forest green bringing out the red highlights in her blonde hair. The older woman thought that it made her look elegant.

The uniform would be pressed and put away when they arrived home, though, for it kept them from being who they were. It separated them, so they hid it, just like they had to hide their relationship when the uniform was out.

The worst moment comes when she has to leave again, and they stand at the airport and hug briefly. There is no kiss goodbye, no “I love you;” no long embrace to last them the length of time apart or the distance between them. The younger woman tells her Captain that the woman who dropped her off is her mother, and even though she knows it has to be said, it hurts when she hears the words spill out of her soft lips. The woman with the graying hair and the beautiful skin is so far from her mother it’s ridiculous. Her Captain would be embarrassed if he knew what they spent the night doing.

The woman with the graying hair always spends the first night she is gone fully awake, praying out loud and asking a God she doesn’t even believe in to make sure that her lover stays safe. It is on one of these nights that she gets the call – driving from the airport to their camp, their platoon was hit. No survivors.

The funeral is the hardest. The young woman’s father, an Army General, receives the flag, unaware his daughter, an Officer Cadet, was even in a relationship. The older woman stands off to the side, hugging her arms to her chest. She wants to storm the casket, tell the world that they were together, and say goodbye, but instead she leaves, stepping lightly to keep her heels from sinking in to the grass. The gunshots make her flinch as she walks away.

She is barely to the parking lot when the Captain catches up with her, a folded flag tucked under his arm.

“Ma’am?”

She turns, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I thought – they said there were no survivors.”

He looks down. “I wasn’t with them. I stayed behind to finish paperwork. I was going to follow the next day.” It is clear he feels responsible as he lets out a deep breath. “I know you aren’t her mother.”

The wrinkles on the woman’s face deepen. “I’m sorry?”

He holds out the flag, pressing it in to her hands. “I’m smarter than Angela thought.”

“Only family members get these,” she whispers, staring down at the flag. It isn’t enough, but at least it’s something.

“You were her family,” he says, stepping closer to her. “And I know I would want my husband to have one.”

Her eyes widen with surprise and he nods at her, turning around and walking back towards the burial site. She watches him go and then leaves for home, resting the flag on her mantle when she gets there. She receives some of Angela’s belongings later in the month, and silently thanks the Captain for knowing what they couldn’t tell.

When people come over and ask about the flag, she tells them that it was for her daughter. Even years later, it’s hard to let go of the façade.

church.

it is raining. your shoes squeak as you follow him between the pews - you’re wearing Chucks. in a Catholic church. on a Sunday. which is what happens when you let him surprise you.

he crouches; head, chest, left side, right side. you follow suit, surprised to see him still standing when you look up.

“i like the aisle,” he says, holding his right hand towards the pew to indicate that you should go first. you do, sitting down far enough away from the aisle for him to sit. when he does, your thighs touch. you shift towards the middle.

the woman in front of you is clutching rosary beads; amber colored and draped gracefully across her knuckles. they remind you of the ones hanging next to your desk at home - made of olive wood and carefully carved by a monk who gave them to your parents on the streets of Assisi, Italy. you can feel the wood drape over your fingers.

your eyes wander during the service, tracing the paintings on the walls and the arches in the corners and the lines of his neck, which make him look regal, even just sitting in a pew.

your knees scream at you when you kneel while the rest of them pray. you don’t know if he participates because you are lost in your head, thinking of spiritual things and the way the church grounds looked and how good he smells.

the ride home is relatively silent. you say that you liked the service, he says that he didn’t. you thank him for taking you; he hugs you over the seatbelt as you sit in front of your house and says that you should go again. you agree.

inside, you pick up the rosary beads. they drape over your fingers and you kneel like the woman, pressing the beads to your chest.

you feel nothing.

confinement.

he is trapped.

he reaches for where the door handle was, but it is gone. his hands slide along the cold wall, feeling the raised bumps catch along the ridges of his fingertips. he feels for a door handle, a hinge, a change in wood - anything to indicate an escape from the black surrounding him.

something skitters across the floor, running directly into his bare foot. it is metal - cold as he presses his foot on top of it. a ring.

his body slides down the wall and he fumbles in the dark, finding the circular object with his fingers. he rolls it around in his left hand, letting it slip over the tip of his third finger and slide past his knuckle. it fits.

the room begins to change and suddenly he is in their home, perched on the tile counter, his right leg hanging between two bar stools. she is on the couch, their chocolate lab sprawled across the rest of the piece of furniture, his head in her lap. she is watching the NCAA championship game; the one he recorded for her because she wanted so much for Duke to win. she brushes a strawberry lock out of her face, and he realizes she isn’t even watching the game. he comes to the conclusion that she has it on for the noise when her head dips down and she laughs, the dog’s tongue lapping across her face. her joy is interrupted by the phone ringing, and she stands, taking her lanky body over the back of the couch to get to the kitchen phone. he hates it when she does that.

he says her name; twice. she picks up the phone. everything starts to go dark again, and the last thing he sees is her face, laced in terror, and he knows. it was the call.

his thumb traces the ring on his finger and he shifts, laying on the ground. his eyes adjust to the dark and he finally sees the light silver outline of the ring on his finger. he whispers her name, letting each letter roll off his tongue like drops of strawberry juice sliding down the back of his throat.

when they finally find him, his right hand is clutching his left ring finger, and his mouth is slightly open, like the most beautiful word in the world just rolled off his tongue.