A Candle for a Marine (Always a Marine) Read Free

lot had changed in his years away, though more stayed the same. Familiar houses blurred past, and he took the hill toward the high school with aggressive energy.
    The building, so huge in his youth, seemed somehow smaller and tending toward shabbier. Faded graffiti, poorly scrubbed off, served as a testament to another subtle, uglier change. He picked up speed on the slope away from the school. Sagging fences and damaged brick gaped like open wounds. Yellowed grass thrust through the cracked sidewalk, and he dodged onto the street when the uneven pavement gave way to buckled sections.
    Two blocks from home, broken vehicles littered every other driveway. A flat tire on one, another on blocks, rusted frames and discoloration on the paint jobs or in some cases, dents from accidents that had never been hammered out. Financial woes stressed the area more than he realized. A handful of kids played outside, tiny pockets of humanity, though they seemed a rare occurrence, the uneasy silence almost audible.
    Not everyone had been at Temple Shabbat. More had been present the night before and, for some, one service a week was plenty. By the time he slowed his pace and circled down the winding residential street toward the community center, his lungs burned pleasantly. Homegrown shops and strip malls decorated the area—Meyer’s Bakery, Elbaz Antiquities, Feinstein’s Corner Grocery. Outdated—hardly an epicenter like the super marts found along the highways—it was a place where shop owners still stood on the corner chatting and neighbors knew everyone.
    Except this morning, of course. All the shops were locked up tight for Shabbat. They would open later in the day, after sundown. The nostalgic throwback reminded him about how home he was. He slowed to a stop at the edge of the blacktopped playground area to consider the new center. A fence separated it from the street. The chain-link didn’t disguise the effort toward cheer conveyed by colorful wall art covering every inch of the building facade.
    The city of Dallas could be seen in the distance on one corner of the mural, a neighborhood ice cream shop that closed when he was in high school closer to the front, and a dozen familiar faces made up the people. Walking around the gate, he frowned at the man depicted in the bottom right corner. It showed a ramrod straight figure walking away, a duffle on his back and, upon a closer inspection, he recognized himself.
    “It took a year to finish all of it.”
    The low-keyed chime of her voice ricocheted to his bones and crumbled his reserve and determination like so much ash and smoke. Steeling himself, he slid his hands into the pockets of his shorts and turned. Despite the cool temperatures, heat flash-fired through him. Zehava always had that effect on him.
    The center was her personal project. He knew that, the reason why he’d come. He could lie about a lot of things, but not her. She wore a dark green turtleneck, a lighter, camel-colored jacket, jeans, and a pair of running shoes. Wariness shadowed her eyes and she had trouble meeting his gaze. Jaw tight, he couldn’t suppress a flare of triumph at her discomfort.
    “It’s lovely. I didn’t know you still painted.”
    “Only projects like this and for some classes I teach here during the week.” She folded her arms and unfolded them. A part of him wanted to set her at ease, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to act on it. Resentment slithered across his skin like a sand rash.
    “Well, it’s good work. I’m particularly fond of my place in it. Walking away.” Was that how she saw him? The man who left?
    “Not walking away.” She shook her head and her chin finally came up. “Walking toward the future. Defending our country, and lonely because you had to leave us to do it. Inspiring because it’s not an easy choice and even harder to live with. Brave because no one here can truly imagine what you faced, so we hoped and prayed you’d come home, safe from hate and