His favorite drink was Old Grandad and Coke. I tasted it a few times, and I remember how it burned. I never saw him doing shots, instead, he'd make a tall glass with just a little ice. The Coke was always kept in the fridge, and I recall he bought the one liter bottles back before two liters came in plastic. Brown bourbon fire would sit on the kitchen counter, vibrant orange labels aflame.

Nobody ever had to worry about me drinking underage.

He often smelled of Winstons and sweat. He didn't stink, not really, but it wasn't a clean smell, either. Hell, none of us probably smelled too clean in his house. He grew up in Chicago, and he didn't believe in air conditioning. How the fuck does someone live in Savannah, Georgia, and not believe in man's greatest gift to man? The air is so thick down there that breathing is a chore. Most of the time, winter is a distant goddamned dream or a hazy reminiscence in the dog days.

Fuck me. Didn't believe in air conditioning.

He retired from the Army. I think he got out as an E-6. That's not stellar, especially for somebody who served multiple tours in the jungles of Vietnam. I think he got in around '65, and I'm not sure if he was drafted or volunteered. I know he got busted a time or two, and I know he ended up in motorpool. I'm pretty sure he was motorpool for most of his hitch, working on deuce and a half trucks. Not exactly a glorious assignment, but not everybody is Rambo, and there are no unimportant jobs in war.

Well. Rear echelon motherfuckers can certainly clog up the works. Wirerats can cause trouble in a smooth operation, but I have no evidence to claim he was a hitter or just a driver. It doesn't matter.

I can't find his records. I've tried.

What does matter is the way memories have a way of sneaking in punches when I look the other way. A turn of phrase from a friend at dinner can make me jump back forty years like it was five minutes ago. Smelling someone's bourbon and coke hit me so hard tonight that I could hear Men at Work talkin' bout a Vegemite sandwich.

I don't miss the man. Hell, I hardly knew him. I didn't much like him, or the company he kept. We were too different, he and I. We came from different places, we had different drives. He lacked ambition, was always hard-luck. He cycled through women after his third wife left him. I liked her, even if my mom and she had a strained relationship; wife three was the other woman for wife two, after all.

I was born to wife two.

My mom tells me I inherited his hair and his sense of humor. I probably should have started shaving my head at 20 instead of 21, but I dated a girl who hated the bald look, so I kept it for her. She left me, and about a month later, I went right for the razor and never looked back.

I stopped referring to him as my dad at around age 12. The man who raised me, the man I call my father but I never called father, he kept his hair the same way the Army vet did. Naturally bald, with the silly wings on the side. If I were to grow mine out, I'd probably have the same thing happen, but I'm not interested.

I never was one for wings. I take solace in solid ground underfoot.

Rooted. Based. Planted.

He was a bit of a rolling stone, that man I once called Dad. The last I heard, he ended up in Augusta, likely in the free hospital there. I understand his last days were spent in hospice, a final gift by way of Agent Orange.

I didn't go to the funeral.

I didn't hate him. I don't hate him now. At the end of life, I just didn't care.

I'm not sure what that says about me, but chalk that up to another thing I don't much care about.

His favorite drink was Old Grandad and Coke, but I never did grow into liking it.

I guess I never really grew to like him, either.

Some people say family is what we're stuck with.

In the end, that's not always true.

It's not easy to start a fire in the dead of winter. Takes Cam a full twenty minutes, June and I watching from the hammock we hung in the trees.

It's a dark night, but the moon shines vibrantly from behind a stray cloud. Once the fire is alive I go and stand next to Cam, picking at the sleeves of my sweater. He hands me a cup and we coax June over for a shot. She makes a face at the taste. I take another.

The ground is sloped down, a pile of leaves and a jut of land just a few yards away, then a drop into more forest. I find a morbid solace in the fact that I could roll right down and disappear into the trees if I wanted. Don't know what makes me think it, but I like the thought that I could get away.

Cam is squatting by the fire, nudging it around with a stick. June goes and sits on a tree stump, baggy jeans flaring out like two angry nostrils. She takes a hit of her vape, smoke combining with smoke.

The heat of the fire is intense on my cheeks, maybe that means I stand there too long watching Cam. He cut his hair and it makes him look like the boys I used to see in church, not like him at all. Close-cropped to the head like he's getting sent off to war.

We'll all be sent off again soon, June to Kentucky and Cam to New York. I'll be in Michigan. We can only hope college won't tear us all apart, that we'll do this again next time we're all home.

Staring into the flames, I can't help but reminisce on last summer, before we left. We threw a party at June's dad's house, she still regrets it. Filled the bathtub with jungle juice and broke the window in the kitchen trying to open it. Everybody was there, everybody important. We'd sat in the basement with all the lights off, lit a candle and told ghost stories without any ghosts. Cam burned his hand on the flame, a little too drunk, I'd taken him upstairs and kissed him accidentally.

Now Cam's in charge of the fire and I'm in charge of the drinking. June is using a stick to draw a cat with fangs in the frozen ground. I wonder if we know each other any more.

I go over to look out at the drop. Doesn't seem that far down. Stand between two trees, take hold of both trunks and lean all my weight forward so they're the only things keeping me in place. Wonder if they're old, if they'll snap, if I'll be sent flying. I stay like that for a few minutes. Nothing happens.

June calls me back, tells me I've got to be cold. I am, kind of. Not really. I breathe out and watch the cloud of condensation. Count the seconds I can see it like I counted the months.

I turn back. Cam's a silhouette, June is lit up by the fire, arms crossed. I wanna know if they've made new friends but I'm afraid to ask.

I make my way back, June is singing now, foot stamping out a beat. Cam turns to smile at me, share a look just like we used to. The fire is warm, soon to be embers but not quite yet.

Emmerette sits in the kitchen brushing Mackenzie’s hair before school: “Ow”! “Too rough Em”! She chuckles: “Sorry Kenny”. Mackenzie huffs, folding her arms: “And I told you, stop calling me Ken it’s a boy’s name call me Mack”! Emmerette smirks: “Like Mac book”? “I hate you”. “Love you too sis”. Emmerette answers as she finishes: “There, all done, now go put your uniform on so we can go ok”? Mackenzie runs off to get changed while Emmerette puts the brush on the table. She debates taking another shot just to calm her nerves, it’s been just them for 2 years now, but she still hasn’t gotten used to it: the responsibility, the pressure, the constant worry that something bad’s gonna happen to Mackenzie or that she’ll be taken from her. She usually got through it by taking a couple shots of vodka before the day started, it settled her, made her feel like she could conquer the world. But she knew that wasn’t a permanent solution, besides she couldn’t bare the thought of letting Mackenzie down, or ending up like their mother, she cringes at the thought before hearing Mackenzie run back downstairs: “Ready Emmie”! Emmerette raises an eyebrow: “Oh it’s Emmie again is it”? “I thought you hated me”. “I just hate that you call me Ken that’s all”. “Aw come on, Emmie and Kenny, don’t you think that’s adorable“? She asks, pulling her close and tickling her. Mackenzie squeals with laughter: “No…it’s not Em”! “Stop”! Emmerette blows a raspberry on Mackenzie’s cheek and she pulls away, wiping it in disgust: “Ew, Em you’re so embracing”! Emmerette laughs: “What am I Kens”? Embracing”! She laughs again: “Do you mean embarrassing Ken”? Mackenzie groans: “Yes”! “That’s what I said and stop calling me that”! She stamps her foot and folds her arms: “Gees you’re such a brat”. Emmerette answers rolling her eyes, Mackenzie sticks her tongue out and Emmerette does the same back before chuckling: “Come on then Macks let’s go”.

That night, half an hour after putting Mackenzie to bed, Emmerette hears a knock on her bedroom door: “Come in Kenny”. Mackenzie comes in looking frustrated, Emmerette chuckles: “Sorry baby couldn’t help it, what’s up”? “Couldn’t sleep”. “Aw, come here”. She picks her up and pulls her into her arms as they lay on the bed together: “Want me to tell you another story”? “Can we talk about mummy”? Emmerette’s whole body tenses: “Mack”- “Please Emmie”? “Just a little bit”? “You can make something up, it doesn’t have to be a real story… I just miss her sometimes”. Emmerette sighs: “I know baby”. She kisses her forehead. As much as she hates reminiscing about the drunk that walked out on them two years ago, she felt a little guilty for never mentioning her. She’d done her best to completely erase her from their memories, she’d even burned all her pictures, that wasn’t fair to Mackenzie, none of this was her fault: “How about the story of mummy in the jungle!”?! Mackenzie gasped excitedly. Emmerette tells a story of a brave woman trekking through the jungle fighting lions, tigers, bears, she wished that was real, that her mum was a fearless warrior and not a drunk who picked a man over her kids, then maybe she’d be here to watch Mackenzie grow up. Once Mackenzie’s asleep she gives her a kiss on the forehead: “I love you baby girl, I’ll always be here for you”. She disentangles herself from her sister and heads back into the kitchen, she was wrong, she did need the shot: Just a couple hits that’s all, it doesn’t make me like mum, I’d never leave Mackenzie, never! She reasons as she reaches for the vodka bottle in the secret part of the cupboard. She grabs the shot glass and pours, downing three shots in quick succession. She breathes a happy sigh, finally feeling vibrant. She puts the vodka bottle and glass back in her hiding spot and skips back upstairs, stopping when she gets to her bedroom door, not wanting to wake Mackenzie. she creeps back into bed, wrapping her arms around Mackenzie. For a few moments she smiles, enjoying how light she feels now the alcohol was back in her system, she was proud, she could control it way better than her mum, she pulls Mackenzie a little closer and strokes her hair, kissing her on the cheek. Things were tough but she knew she could find solace in her sister… and her friend…

He hiked with his back turned to his home. The smoggy city boasted above his shoulders but lessened with each step he took. Minutes ago, the man stood in his kitchen with confidence and solace holding a pen in his hand. He wrote a note and left it sticking out of his refrigerator door before gathering his pack and leaving his apartment. He looked back, but could no longer see his home; the buildings and factories set like the sun. The desert was upon him now and his boots sunk into the golden earth. He expected this. The man reached into his pack and pulled out snow shoes he had once worn on a ski trip with his family. He didn’t know why he had saved these, but he reminisced on the trip as he fashioned them to his feet. The snowshoes increased his speed greatly and he was able to make considerable progress. When the sun began to lose its eternal battle with the moon, it fell out of the sky revealing thousands of stars poking through the fabric of the night sky. A few of them formed pictures resembling trees and animals. He pitched his tent but could not fall asleep; Ideas like lightning in his head.

As he continued walking, the wind began to pick up rapidly. It whipped the man’s face red and pulled tears from his eyes. The tears pinched off from the corners of his eyes and hit the dry earth. He reached into his pack again and pulled out an umbrella to hold in front of him. The currents shot off of the umbrella in either direction and offered him some protection. He continued marching on but his pace slowed dramatically. His legs had become tired and he was starting to feel the fatigue and hunger inside of him. The sun began to set again and he pitched his tent. He started a fire from some kindling from his backpack and he cooked some cactus on the open flame. He fell asleep with a full stomach.

On his third day of travel, the winds tore his umbrella into pieces and he was confronted with the brute of the oppressive force blowing into him. The wind sucked the air from his lungs and he struggled to breathe. His legs, heavy from the walking, failed him as he tripped over his snowshoes, breaking them. He scrambled on the ground for the remnants of the snowshoes and the torn fabric of the umbrella but the wind was quicker and unrelenting and tossed the scraps behind the dunes; the man's soul flew with them. He buried his face, red from the wind and the harsh sun, in his arms and wept. Sand from his hair embedded itself in his luscious green eyes and his tears turned to screams from the burning sensation all over his face. The wind surged once again and he could no longer take it. The man turned around and was accompanied by an immediate sense of reassurance and the wind assisted him as he began his trip home. Just over the dune, a vibrant oasis sat waiting. A jungle of mystery and adventure sprawled out on the horizon.

The man returned to his apartment. He set his bag down on the floor and opened the refrigerator. A note flew out and wafted down onto the tile floor. The note read, “goin somewhere new.” He picked up the note and threw it away.

I sing to myself quietly as I putter in the kitchen, preparing dinner. As I place a pan in the sink, a ray of sun shines in the window, hitting my face and making me blink. Squinting, I lean over the sink and peer out of the window at just the right angle to see the driveway. It’s still empty, as it has been since 6:00 this morning.

Sighing, I glance at the glowing numbers on the oven clock. 5:30. My husband should have been home thirty minutes ago, but I’m not surprised that he is late. As a road service technician, he often gets calls late in the day and has to attend them before heading home. I learned a long time ago not to assume that his schedule would follow my expectations.

As I pull the vegetables off the stove and strain them, I hear the familiar beeping of my husband’s truck as he backs down the driveway. Smiling, I set the dining room table and wait for him to walk in the door, which he does a minute later.

“You’re late,” I tease as I pull him into a hug. Before he pulls away, I push my fingers through his jungle of hair and breathe in his scent – a musk of motor oil and sweat. I’ve never found that combination of smells particularly alluring, but it’s become familiar and comforting over the years. After fifteen years together, it’s easy to reminisce. When the days are hard, and I struggle to find meaning in the day-to-day, I take solace in the scent that reminds me that this man loves me enough to spend his days doing back-breaking work to support me, support us.

But today, there is a new scent in the mix, something familiar, but I can’t place it. He pushes me away before I can put my finger on it.

“I’m gross,” he explains. “Let me shower.”

“But dinner’s ready,” I whine. “Can’t you wait until after we eat? Just wash your hands.”

“Look at me, Mary!” His voice is so loud it makes me take a step back. He seems to realize how loud he’s gotten and lowers his voice a bit. “Look, I just want to be clean. It’s been a long day, and I’ve been on my feet since 7 this morning. The customers were rude, the boss was obnoxious, and nothing went right. I just want a hot shower. Please, Angel.”

His use of his pet name for me melts me, and I give in. “Of course, honey. Go shower, and we’ll eat when you’re done.”

My poor husband can get so tired and grouchy after a hard day at work. It usually doesn’t take much more than a hug and a kiss from me, a shower, and a good meal, but I decide it couldn’t hurt to go above and beyond. I wait a few minutes to give him time to undress and start the shower. Then, I try to sneak into the bathroom to grab his towel. A few minutes in the dryer will make it soft and warm, the perfect little treat to make him smile.

But the sight that greets me when I open the bathroom door makes me scream. My husband, standing in the middle of the bathroom in all his naked glory, is covered in vibrant, glistening, fresh blood.

“Oh my god!” I scream. “What happened?”

He looks at me in muted surprise and then looks down at himself. I realize that most of the blood seems to be centered around a spot on his abdomen.

“Angel?” he says in a faraway voice. “I think I’ve been shot.”

Without another word, he drops to the floor.

I sigh, rolling out of bed as I do every morning. I stretch my tired limbs and the bones pop and crack with each movement as I take a moment to breathe in the dark of my room as I sit on the edge of the bed. Wiping a hand over my face, I yawn before standing up and trundling to the bathroom to start the day. The morning is quiet as I amble through the house, moving to the kitchen after washing my face and brushing my teeth to make myself a coffee. Before I can grab a mug from the cupboard, the shrill ring of my phone pierces the air. I grab it and groggily reply, “Hello?”

“Hey, do you have a minute?” It’s Reese. I recognize their voice, although the usual vibrant tone is gone and replaced with a shaky, somber timbre. Knowing something is amiss, I run a hand through the jungle that is my hair as I reply.

“Of course, Ray. Did something happen?” A few seconds pass, the once peaceful silence of my dark home becoming heavy with anxiety.

“They called and said Adrien died last night.” The words are strained as they pass into my ear and I let out a breath, my eyes squeezing shut. I feel sickness bubble up in my throat and my eyes open, darting to the window. It’s still dark outside and the twilight casts a blue tint over the street. I walk over and shut the curtain before leaning against the counter.

“Are you serious? What happened?” My hand finds its way to my hip as my grip tightens on the phone. I nibble on my lower lip.

“They said it was another hit.” I scoff out softly in disbelief, shaking my head.

“That’s the third one this month, isn’t it? God, this is bullshit.” I dig my heel into the floor, anger pulsing through me before I remind myself of Reese on the other line. I sigh and relax my tense shoulders. “How are you doing? I know how close you two were.”

“I’m managing. Comes with the territory, you know?” They let out a dry laugh. “God, it’s like the time he got shot, do you remember that?” I huff out a laugh.

“Yeah, that asshole was begging to get lit up the way he ran in there. I’m surprised he only got shot once.” Reese sighs lightly, humming into the phone as they reminisce.

“I guess he wasn’t so lucky this time around.” I tut softly at their words.

“It’s not really about luck, they’ve been at our throats for weeks now.” I pause before speaking again, debating with myself. “To be honest, I wanted to say I’m glad it wasn’t you but that isn’t very appropriate, is it?” I shake my head, bringing my hand to my mouth to bite the tip of my thumb. “I’m sorry. It’s just - I’m glad you’re okay.” Reese doesn’t reply immediately and we sit in silence, the soft noise of the phone call becoming deafening in my ear. I feel my cheeks heat up in shame for having said that.

“Well, I can say the same. Guess we should try to find solace somewhere, right?” I let my hand fall away from my mouth and push off the counter softly.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I mutter. I grab a mug and fill it with the warm coffee but don’t move to drink it. “I’m really sorry, Reese. Maybe it’s best if we see about staying with each other until this shit blows over.” My fingers tap against the cold marble next to my mug.

“I’ll make a call in a few hours. I’ll let you know what they say.” I sigh, waiting for them to continue.

“Hey, if you need anything, you’ll let me know, right?” I ask softly.

“Sure, Con. Just - I’ll see you later.” Before I can reply, the call ends. I hold the phone to my ear for a couple more seconds, staring out into my dark, empty home. I grit my teeth, throwing the phone to the floor before kicking the lower cabinet doors with the back of my heel as I yell out.

the sun filtered through the blinds of the bedroom, dragging her from her slumber. her lover slept like the dead beside her, an image of a good night's sleep: her hair was strewn across a pillow, her mouth was agape, and her snores echoed amid the otherwise silent bedroom in a reminder that it was teeming with life despite its softness. it was a saturday where they both had the rare luxury of sleeping in, something that was few and far between these days, and they were going to take solace in it. as quietly as she could, she made her way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. her plan was to make breakfast, but after pouring two steaming mugs of coffee she was inevitably sidetracked by a pair of arms snaking around her waist and a muffled "'morning," being whispered into her back. a grin broke out on her face as she turned towards her lover, who was drowning in an oversized green hoodie and an old pair of boxers. the jungle of bedhead atop her sleepy face was a sight to behold indeed.

honestly, with a view as lovely as the one in front of her right now, breakfast could wait. she could stare at this woman for a century without realizing that any time had passed at all. in fact, she'd be happy to do it in the first place.

all of a sudden, her eyes were watering and she couldn't help the way that her breath had escaped her lungs in that very moment, despite the soft mundanity of the scene before her. then again, she had never thought she would make it this point, and the vibrant reality of it left her not just at a loss for words, but with a knot in her through and a struggle to breathe. after all, here she was, standing in a kitchen of a house she owned, with a beautiful, sleepy woman at her side drinking coffee she made the two of them on a lazy saturday morning where there was nothing to do but enjoy the simple pleasure of being alive. the rawness of the moment hit her like a shot of adrenaline - a reminder of not just the struggles of the past but the hopefulness of the future.

that said, there was no time to get sidetracked reminiscing - not when there was a present to live through right then and there. instead, she shook her head, took a deep breath and smiled down at her lover before ushering her towards the stool.

"sit tight, i'm making pancakes!"

in the end, she knew that not every day would be as sweet as this one - some days would be stormy and sometimes breakfast would have to be spent separately on differing commutes. but she would always cherish the moments of togetherness that exist tucked away between the chaos of life because sometimes a shared pot of coffee and some pancake batter is enough to prove that life is worth living.