The names were a sea of black granite, polished to a mirror finish. They reflected the bright, indifferent California sun, but all I saw was the darkness they held. Each name was a life, a story cut short, a void left in the world.
I was looking for just one.
David ‘Salty’ Peterson. My grandson.
My finger, thin and knotted with the roadmap of eighty years, traced the cold stone. It felt like touching a memory.
I could almost feel the rough texture of his kid-sized baseball glove, the grip of his hand when he was a boy, the last firm handshake he gave me before he shipped out.
“All right, Pops. I think you’ve seen enough. This area is for active personnel only.”
The voice was sharp, like a fresh-honed blade.
It sliced right through the low hum of the naval base and the private fog of my grief.
It was the voice of a man who had never been told ‘no,’ a voice that expected the world to snap to attention when he spoke. I didn’t turn.
Not yet. I just wanted one more second with David.
One more moment to feel the phantom ache that had lived in my chest since the day they told us Extortion 17 had gone down.
He stood with his arms crossed, a caricature of military perfection. Commander Thorne, his nameplate read. He was carved from the same granite as the memorial, all hard lines and ambition.
His Navy SEAL uniform looked less like clothing and more like a second, hardened skin.
He was young, with eyes that saw everything as either a target or an obstacle. Right now, I was an obstacle.
My thin gray windbreaker, a companion for more decades than this kid had been alive, probably looked like a disgrace against the backdrop of so much crisp, decorated blue. My hair was silver, what was left of it.
My hands, clasped behind my back, were swollen and bent.
I was the picture of a frail old man who had wandered where he didn’t belong. “Did you hear me, old-timer?” Thorne’s voice hardened. He wasn’t asking.
He was commanding.
He took a step closer. His polished boots made an impatient, rhythmic clack on the pavement, a countdown timer on my presence.
“This isn’t a public park. I don’t know how you wandered in here, but visiting hours are over.”
Finally, I stirred.
It felt like pulling myself up from a deep, cold-water trench.
I turned my head, slowly, letting the weight of the years show in the movement. I met his eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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