The bullet sits on a bookshelf downstairs. It's a precarious location, prone to being knocked off and lost in clutter. But for some reason it's become the bullet's final resting place.
A relative handed the bullet to me after my dad's funeral, which included an honor guard because of his military service.
My dad didn't see combat, at least in service. He never shot anyone. I heard that he once clobbered a guy pretty bad with just his hands, but that wasn't in the military.
His combat came in life. The bullets weren't metal but were events and luck, a rusty sort that lacked the polish of newly opened ammunition. Life would throw at him a failed business, a few failed marriages, the deaths of a few children, and a bucket full of problems the rest of us went through.
He didn't quite know how to duck. He didn't really dive for cover. He took his shots as they came, quietly except for a few times when his temper risked some friendly fire fury.
My relationship with my dad kind of became that precariously placed bullet. Broke and battered because of some bad decisions, I stayed away because I didn't want him to see my pain.
I didn't realize until I was a father that sometimes we need to let people try to be that emotional flak jacket, whether or not they really have the power to help us dodge a bullet.
So when emphysema dealt a final blow I wasn't there for the part that led up to the dying, only showing up on what would become his last battle. I sat there and grabbed his hand, saw him open his eyes once before they shot closed.
I swear he stared right at me, the kind of piercing look that leaves residue behind.
I didn't know if I deserved that bullet, but I grabbed it and cherished it.
And while I admit the location of the bullet is precarious, it's also fitting. I don't have to look everyday to see it's there. I know it's there, ready to grab onto when I need something to hold and remember.
I learned something else from the bullet and the man. While many don't understand, that's how my family loves.
We talk more than we used to, but we still go long periods like that bullet, sitting on a shelf.
We each now carry our own bullets, ones that we acknowledge tear away at our own lives and legacies. And we are learning how to duck, but it takes a few blows to remind us.
But when the barrage erupts and there's too many to dodge, we know our flack jackets are there, ready for use.
