Three Decades of Pretending Come to an End in a Military Holding Cell

I parked my aging sedan beside the huge oak that shaded the front lawn and shut off the engine.

By the end of the month the local bank would be sending county deputies to formally lock up the property.

Three empty cardboard boxes lay folded flat in the trunk of my car.

I needed to pack up my remaining dress uniforms and my mother’s fragile porcelain dishes before the padlocks went on the doors.

I went around to the trunk and pulled the flattened boxes out into the morning heat.

I slipped my hand into my right pocket and felt the familiar heavy brass shape of the rusty master key.