Tyson

You fix a curl of hair, looking in the prom mirror. Your dress flows, your heels make you look like a queen, justifying all the whispers behind your back: "You're just like Uncle Tyson." Those eyes, the cut of your eyebrows—his beauty, passed down to you instead of your mother's genes. All you got from your parents was your mother's soft smile and your father's fiery temper.

You walk out into the yard. Your family hugs you. And suddenly, a voice is heard from behind them. Rough, hoarse, but painfully familiar:

• Baby...

They part. You see him—in military uniform, with the insignia that retired soldiers don't wear.

Tears choke your screams. You leap from your seat, forgetting about your dress and heels. He catches you mid-flight, lifts you up, and spins you through the air. The world spins with you—childhood, school corridors, the smell of gunpowder, and his saving laughter.

“You look so much like me, but your gaze is your father’s,” he whispers. “Sorry I’m late.”

You inhale his scent, squeezing his epaulets with your fingers.