247 SENIOR ESSAY, SECOND PLACE Melodee Stromotich Come Home My father has a photograph on the wall. It lives in the space above the bowl of keys next to the front door: one of the 昀rst things you see when you come home, and the last when you leave. I don’t think about the photo much growing up. It never occurs to me. It’s simply there. Like the 昀xtures on the mantle, the notches in the door frame, the creaks in the stairs. It’s a part of our house, familiar and loved in its own way, even if I don’t know why we have it. I don’t ask until I’m old enough to have kids of my own, and return to my childhood home once more. My children run across the lawn I mowed every summer, through the garden I planted with poppies reaching for the shining sun. My father huffs on the cigar pinched between his teeth, smoke billowing out his nose like a freight train. “They were my friends.” I look at the photograph again. It was once black and white, but time has yellowed its edges and bleached corners. It’s a group of four men wearing army uniforms, huddled together in front of a tank taller than all of them. They’re hardly men, the closer you look. Each of their faces hold the same youthful grins, eyes squinted against sunlight. Their arms stretch out, resting on friendly shoulders. Pulling each other into a group hug. The camaraderie and laughter echo off the paper like whispers. My father, on the left side, looks younger than I’ve ever seen him. His wiry frame has him standing tallest in the photograph, all long limbs and awkward posture. He’s so boyish it brings a gentle smile to my face. My father still carries with him a pocket knife in his boot, and a haunted look tucked behind his eyes we never comment on. My mother told me once, when I was knee-high and curious, that we should not ask him about what happened in the war. “What were they like?” I ask, for the 昀rst time in my life. It’s a question I didn’t realize burned at my tongue with curiosity for years. The man on the right wears a hat too large on his head, tipping forward into his eyes. He was quite the good singer, my father tells me, his voice soft and reminiscent. He had owned a harmonica that was quickly con昀scated, in order to spare everyone’s ears, since he couldn’t hold a tune with anything but his voice. The man next to him lived just a town over. His smile is lopsided and mischievous, his ears big and wide.
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