by James Hunt
Martha turned toward her son, offering no warm embrace or comfort. She had transformed into a piece of steel, cold and unyielding. He’d never seen her like that. It was like staring into the face of a stranger.
“Your father was a hard man, and a proud man,” Martha said, her eyes locked onto his. They were so still, balls of concrete wedged into that steel skull. “He died doing what he believed in, and while you may not have agreed with his actions, I did.” She stepped closer. “Our world has always relied on moving forward. And after everything that’s been thrust upon us, that statement has requested even more respect from us. Be that man, Charlie. Be the man your father always knew that you could be. No more doubt, no more hesitation. You know what you have to do. It’s time you do it.”
And then his mother walked away, offering no affection after her words, and Charlie was left with the mild sting of reality.
His first instinct was to turn around and talk to her, to run to his mother and hold her and to be held in return, but he pushed the thought aside. Because deep down, underneath that self-doubt and hesitation that had plagued him most of his life, was the granite of his heritage.
The hard bedrock that his father had bestowed up him and had built a life with nothing more than his will and his hands. Harold Decker made his mark on the world, never asking for permission, and never seeking forgiveness for pushing forward.
It was Charlie’s turn to make his mark.
Charlie and Mario lowered Harold Decker into the hole the other workers had dug. He was wrapped in a white bedsheet, and Charlie stared down at his father’s figure a moment before he lifted his eyes to the living bodies that surrounded the grave.
Everyone had come. Well, everyone that had been with them so far. Some of the men and attempted to comb their hair, making themselves as presentable as they could with their limited resources. Charlie recognized the effort as a show of respect, and it was a gesture that he had forgotten to do himself.
Martha had pulled Liz close, the pair of women clutching hands tightly, both looking to Charlie with the fading sun behind them.
Glancing out at the fields now, with the sun setting and bathing the world in that golden hue Charlie had loved so much, it didn’t seem right that he was burying his father on such a beautiful evening.
The would should have been as broken and dreary as Charlie felt, but the sight was just another lesson in the long string of realities that he’d experienced over a very short amount of time.
Charlie lowered his eyes to his father’s body one more time, avoiding the stares of the mourners that surrounded him, buying time for the words his mother wanted him to say.
He’d spent most of the day trying to figure them out, but no matter how many times he tried to jot down on the blank page, or how many ways he rearranged the words in his head, they just didn’t fit.
So he followed his mother’s advice. He plowed forward.
“Three hundred acres,” Charlie said. “That’s how much land was burned when those terrorists came marching down our road. The fires went up and spread and took everything that we’ve ever known.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
The faces in the crowd remained void of emotion, but they leaned forward, listening intently, wanting to soak in not just Charlie’s words, but whatever confidence that they could borrow from him.
“But we’re not without our wits,” Charlie said. “And we’re not without our bodies.” He pointed to the blackened and charred fields, made softer by the dying light of the day. “Once upon a time there was nothing out there. No homes. No farms. No signs of life other than the natural essence of the forest. But people like my father saw the potential for what this place could be, and so did Don.” He turned to Amy who had her three boys huddled around her, and she offered the first smile from the group. He took it as a sign he was heading in the right direction. And he grew bolder. “This is our home, and no one is going to take it from us. They can bring their men, and their guns, and their fire and death, but it will not be enough to beat us. It will never be enough!” Spittle flew from Charlie’s mouth as he spoke, his fervor intensifying.
Charlie focused on the faces around him now. His words had brought forth a strength in them that wasn’t there before. And the more he spoke the hotter his own flames burned, every syllable from his mouth feeding the fires.
“This is our home! And we will never give it up!”
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!
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