Peace At Last
That was his last war. He came home and hung up his uniforms and we spent a good portion of the next 30 years fishing and hunting together. Even on fly-fishing safaris, where the only enemy is the wind, the Colt came with him.
“You never know,” he would say, gently placing the Colt into its suede, fleece-lined case and then putting the case into his helmet bag. “Things happen.”
A dozen years ago we were sitting in front of a campfire in central Colorado, neither one of us speaking, both of us lost in the flames. The Milky Way was a broad brushstroke across the face of heaven that faded and then disappeared as the moon rose over the Continental Divide and set the world aglow. No words were spoken for a long time because neither one of us has much to say unless something needs to be said. I don’t particularly like the taste of bourbon, but I was sipping a tumbler of bourbon and water because my father had offered it to me and that was what he was drinking.
“It’s been quite a trip, hasn’t it?” I said, my eyes focused on the flames.
“Yes, it has.”
“If you had it all to do over again, would you do anything differently?” I asked.
He was silent for a moment. He took a sip of his drink and put the glass down on the ground. Then he looked up at the moon. I had already asked my question and I knew he had heard it, so I didn’t ask again.
“This is how it was the night the Germans almost got me. Full moon, no wind, not a sound. Even the temperature was about the same.” He looked at me and grinned. “If they had captured me, you probably wouldn’t be here.”
“Nor would you.”
His gaze returned to the fire. “I suppose the only thing I’d do differently, if I had any say, is I’d spend a lot more time here in Colorado, up in the mountains.” He slowly stood up, grasping his right knee, and hobbled over to the truck. He opened the camper shell and removed his helmet bag. Then he came back over to the fire and sat down in his chair. He unzipped his helmet bag and took the suede pistol case out. “Do you want it?” he asked, offering me the pistol case. “I won’t need it anymore. It might come in handy someday.”
“No,” I said, slowly shaking my head. “Not now, anyway. Just don’t sell it.”
He put the pistol case back into his helmet bag and then stood up, holding the arm of the aluminum chair for support. “I’m going to hit the sack,” he said. He started to walk away but after only a few steps he turned back to face me. “I keep it in the nightstand next to my bed. That’s where it’ll be.”
He turned away again and walked through the moonlight toward his tent.
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