Kassarock
Vixere
headintheclouds
Serenia
ArynMae20
ICanBeAnyone
iFain
HosYou’re going home.
McCormick blood ran deep in the roots of Hingham Valley, Montana, and Luke was the last of his generation above the ground. He shouldn’t have been. His constant quest for a death wish was so far unfulfilled, though not for lack of trying. Between his attitude and Aleppo, one of them should’ve killed him by now -- yet he was the one pouring out Macallan in the September sun.
“Scotch for a dead man,” Luke muttered, sitting next to his brother’s grave.
Samuel McCormick
03/12/1986 - 7/21/2019
Loving Husband & Brother
Sam’s last words to him had been while Luke lay in a hospital bed in Germany. If you die, I’ll pour you out a scotch. His death hadn’t sunk in yet. Until Luke saw the farm without him, it wouldn’t be real.
“I was supposed to be first, you fucking asshole.”
As far as burial spots went, Sam had a pretty good view. It was in the Valley plot, sure, but most of the family was there anyway. Luke sipped from the bottle as he remembered the last few family funerals he’d attended with his brother. First had been Matthew, the third McCormick boy. Car accident. Then there was their mother. Cancer. Then their father. Suicide. Three deaths in three years. It got the point where people started to treat Luke strangely, like he was a package without a label on the front steps. When horrible things happen, people tend to either spread out or close in.
Sam had spread out. He wasn’t supposed to go -- because he was the responsible one. When Sam spoke, people listened. He had been on such good terms with everyone in the town that he had a bartering system with most of the businesses. Free pastries at the bakery in exchange for raw milk. Beer for fence mending. Eggs for bacon. Sam was the one who would’ve made their mother proud, and Luke was the one who would’ve made his mother sigh and say, “Jesus Christ, what have you done this time?”
Granted, Sam had a lot to do with the success of the farm. It had been their mother’s dream, after all. His brother, however, was only one man. Charlie was the other half of the magical equation. She had just as much to do with the farm’s prosperity as Sam had.
Luke took a swig from the scotch bottle and lit up a cigarette. He rested his shoulder against the cool granite of Sam’s headstone and looked up at the sun, through the oaks that framed the graveyard. On the inhale, a sharp pain poked between his ribs. It happened every now and then, since Germany. Ignoring it, he took another drag and screwed the cap back on the scotch. “Short visit,” he told Sam’s grave, “I know. You’re dead, so I don’t have a lot to say.”
His first order of business back in town was to see Sam -- Charlie would understand. He stuck the bottle in his Army bag and slung it over his shoulder. Cologne to Hingham Valley was one international flight, two domestic connects, a bus ride, and a hitch. Somehow, the walk from Sam’s grave to the farm was much longer.
After two more cigarettes, he turned up Lawson Hill, one of many dirt-to-farm roads in the county. It was a half-mile to the property, mostly uphill. Dusty in the summer, muddy in the spring, and a total icy bitch in the winter. He’d abandoned many trucks at the bottom in Januaries past.
You’re coming home.
The house was the first thing he saw. The barn and pasture quickly followed. If Luke hadn’t known better, his brother could have been still alive -- his truck was in the driveway and sheets were hung out on the line to dry. He half expected dinner to be in the oven and football on in the background, Sam sharing a beer with one of the neighbors on the porch.
“Charlie!” Luke called out.
It had taken him weeks to get cleared for a flight back to the States. She knew he was coming back, but she didn’t know when. Mostly because he didn’t tell her. Talking to her was harder than he wanted to admit. There was no way to have an easy, simple conversation now that Sam was gone.
She could be anywhere, and if he knew her at all, then she certainly wasn’t in the house.
He stuck his thumb and index in his mouth and whistled. “Charlie!”
You're coming home.
McCormick blood ran deep in the roots of Hingham Valley, Montana, and Luke was the last of his generation above the ground. He shouldn’t have been. His constant quest for a death wish was so far unfulfilled, though not for lack of trying. Between his attitude and Aleppo, one of them should’ve killed him by now -- yet he was the one pouring out Macallan in the September sun.
“Scotch for a dead man,” Luke muttered, sitting next to his brother’s grave.
Samuel McCormick
03/12/1986 - 7/21/2019
Loving Husband & Brother
Sam’s last words to him had been while Luke lay in a hospital bed in Germany. If you die, I’ll pour you out a scotch. His death hadn’t sunk in yet. Until Luke saw the farm without him, it wouldn’t be real.
“I was supposed to be first, you fucking asshole.”
As far as burial spots went, Sam had a pretty good view. It was in the Valley plot, sure, but most of the family was there anyway. Luke sipped from the bottle as he remembered the last few family funerals he’d attended with his brother. First had been Matthew, the third McCormick boy. Car accident. Then there was their mother. Cancer. Then their father. Suicide. Three deaths in three years. It got the point where people started to treat Luke strangely, like he was a package without a label on the front steps. When horrible things happen, people tend to either spread out or close in.
Sam had spread out. He wasn’t supposed to go -- because he was the responsible one. When Sam spoke, people listened. He had been on such good terms with everyone in the town that he had a bartering system with most of the businesses. Free pastries at the bakery in exchange for raw milk. Beer for fence mending. Eggs for bacon. Sam was the one who would’ve made their mother proud, and Luke was the one who would’ve made his mother sigh and say, “Jesus Christ, what have you done this time?”
Granted, Sam had a lot to do with the success of the farm. It had been their mother’s dream, after all. His brother, however, was only one man. Charlie was the other half of the magical equation. She had just as much to do with the farm’s prosperity as Sam had.
Luke took a swig from the scotch bottle and lit up a cigarette. He rested his shoulder against the cool granite of Sam’s headstone and looked up at the sun, through the oaks that framed the graveyard. On the inhale, a sharp pain poked between his ribs. It happened every now and then, since Germany. Ignoring it, he took another drag and screwed the cap back on the scotch. “Short visit,” he told Sam’s grave, “I know. You’re dead, so I don’t have a lot to say.”
His first order of business back in town was to see Sam -- Charlie would understand. He stuck the bottle in his Army bag and slung it over his shoulder. Cologne to Hingham Valley was one international flight, two domestic connects, a bus ride, and a hitch. Somehow, the walk from Sam’s grave to the farm was much longer.
After two more cigarettes, he turned up Lawson Hill, one of many dirt-to-farm roads in the county. It was a half-mile to the property, mostly uphill. Dusty in the summer, muddy in the spring, and a total icy bitch in the winter. He’d abandoned many trucks at the bottom in Januaries past.
You’re coming home.
The house was the first thing he saw. The barn and pasture quickly followed. If Luke hadn’t known better, his brother could have been still alive -- his truck was in the driveway and sheets were hung out on the line to dry. He half expected dinner to be in the oven and football on in the background, Sam sharing a beer with one of the neighbors on the porch.
“Charlie!” Luke called out.
It had taken him weeks to get cleared for a flight back to the States. She knew he was coming back, but she didn’t know when. Mostly because he didn’t tell her. Talking to her was harder than he wanted to admit. There was no way to have an easy, simple conversation now that Sam was gone.
She could be anywhere, and if he knew her at all, then she certainly wasn’t in the house.
He stuck his thumb and index in his mouth and whistled. “Charlie!”
You're coming home.
