Welcome Home (Short Story)
Mister and Misses Rodriquez sit in silence for a moment and gaze upon the large SUPPORT OUR TROOPS ribbon that is mounted on their garage door. As she wakes up out of her trance, she looks over to her husband of 25 years and is about to speak. He immediately turns off the car, unbuckles his seat belt, and jumps out of his 1999 Ford Crown Victoria. He wants no part of this conversation. She is left stunned, speechless. She watches him slowly walk away into the back entrance of their small but quaint home in the heart of East Los Angeles, Boyle Heights to be exact.
Still stunned by her husbands’ behavior she gathers her purse and a bag from the hospital that contains her son’s military fatigues. She begins to walk towards the back of the house.
She stops and stares at the WELCOME HOME SON banner that is hung on the back of their house. Turns back to the garage and her eyes are glued to the plastic yellow tape on the side door that forms an X with the word CAUTION over and over again. She walks towards the X, fearing what lies beyond. She cannot help it. She has never run away from difficulties in her life.
She takes a deep breath. Rifles through her purse for her keys, “Por Dios, where are my keys?” She asks herself. Once she finds them, she gradually makes her way to the door, the X. The door is slightly ajar. She pulls down the X, slowly pushes on the door with her left hand, does the sign of the cross with her right “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost,” she says, “Lord… give me the strength.”
The garage is damp and smells of mildew. Dust swirls in the air of three beams of sunlight that come through the small windows of the garage.
The first thing she sees is his large green camouflage duffle bag, still covered in sand dust, locked at one end. RODRIQUEZ is stenciled on the side of the bag. The bag has not been touched since he arrived home.
She takes another deep breath, remains stoic. Her eyes never leave the ground as she scans the garage floor. The paramedic’s muddy foot steps are everywhere from last nights rain shower, a lifetime ago.
She turns to her left, to the center of the garage. Does the sign of the cross again, “Lord…give me the strength,” she says. She sees them. Two red plastic milk crates knocked over on their side. As if everything was in slow motion. She picks one up and tries to remember where they came from. What were they used for? Why were they here? Why was he brought home safely to be taken away? Dios, Por Que? Never looking directly above her head.
Still stunned by her husbands’ behavior she gathers her purse and a bag from the hospital that contains her son’s military fatigues. She begins to walk towards the back of the house.
She stops and stares at the WELCOME HOME SON banner that is hung on the back of their house. Turns back to the garage and her eyes are glued to the plastic yellow tape on the side door that forms an X with the word CAUTION over and over again. She walks towards the X, fearing what lies beyond. She cannot help it. She has never run away from difficulties in her life.
She takes a deep breath. Rifles through her purse for her keys, “Por Dios, where are my keys?” She asks herself. Once she finds them, she gradually makes her way to the door, the X. The door is slightly ajar. She pulls down the X, slowly pushes on the door with her left hand, does the sign of the cross with her right “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost,” she says, “Lord… give me the strength.”
The garage is damp and smells of mildew. Dust swirls in the air of three beams of sunlight that come through the small windows of the garage.
The first thing she sees is his large green camouflage duffle bag, still covered in sand dust, locked at one end. RODRIQUEZ is stenciled on the side of the bag. The bag has not been touched since he arrived home.
She takes another deep breath, remains stoic. Her eyes never leave the ground as she scans the garage floor. The paramedic’s muddy foot steps are everywhere from last nights rain shower, a lifetime ago.
She turns to her left, to the center of the garage. Does the sign of the cross again, “Lord…give me the strength,” she says. She sees them. Two red plastic milk crates knocked over on their side. As if everything was in slow motion. She picks one up and tries to remember where they came from. What were they used for? Why were they here? Why was he brought home safely to be taken away? Dios, Por Que? Never looking directly above her head.
posted by Sifter at
9:59 PM
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