Cecil & Old Glory

Cecil exited his Ford and stood before the old, run-down barn. A worn Old Glory still hung above the open cupola, defiantly surviving decades of sun, wind, and rain, yet looked in better condition than the barn. He remembered when the flag was brand new, waving against the morning sun as he and his cousins played tag beneath the Blue Angels streaking across the sky. Cecil smiled at the memories; he came a long way from being that scrawny kid with the grandpa glasses. Each step toward the barn transported him back in time, from epic super soaker battles, nerf ball throwing contests, family get-togethers, to the first time he laid eyes on Angie standing near the entrance, turning to meet his stupefied gaze. Cecil shook the thought and blinked away tears. He grasped the barn door and looked around. It was partially ajar and took some force to pry open completely. Despite the faint, musky smell and overgrown grass, the inside looked mostly the same. While the barn was used long ago for hay and livestock, Cecil’s father remodeled it in the late 90s. The bottom was a storage and recreational area with a pool table, couch, treadmill, kitchen, restrooms, and extra space to setup tables and chairs for gatherings. Upstairs was his father’s office and a foosball table. Cecil grabbed a pool stick and shot the 8-ball in a corner pocket. He milled around and stopped at the worn sofa.

A younger Cecil and Angie were sprawled on the couch, watching the sun set through the open barn door. The heady scent of freshly cut grass and apple blossom hair conditioner added to the surrealness of the moment, neither wanting it to end.

“What do you think will happen?”, asked Angie.

“I dunno, but for now I just wanna to stay like this.”

Angie burrowed her face in Cecil’s chest and fell asleep listening to his steady heartbeat.

Older Cecil walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was empty but in the bottom shelf he found an unopened bottle of Port Charlotte, his dad’s favorite. He took it and proceeded upstairs. There was a big gap near the top and each creaking step threatened to break but Cecil made it without incident. His father’s office was unkempt with papers strewn about; the desk was a simple folding table covered in cloth weighed down with file boxes. Cecil sat in his father’s old brown padded Herman Miller chair, and removed the lid off the nearest box. On top was a framed family photo taken when he was four years old. His mother and father looked just as he remembered. Cecil was glad they passed long before the end of the world, but his brother and sister weren’t so lucky. He placed the photo down and saw one of his father sitting at his desk on the phone, proudly gesturing toward Old Glory in the background. Cecil’s grandparents were immigrants, quick to adopt their new country where anything was possible and passed down their deep love and patriotism to their children and grandchildren. Opening the bottle of Port Charlotte, Cecil poured some out for his father, his family, and for the battered flag waving softly, probably the only thing left of the country aside from him and the barn. He took a swig and savored the smoky, briny flavor with hints of vanilla sweetness and closed his eyes.

“I left her dad. After all those years she stuck by me, I left Angie because I was a coward. And now look where that got me; I’m here alone talking to ghosts.”

Suddenly ear-splitting shrieks erupted from outside, closing in on the barn.

“And now them.”

Cecil took one last look at his father’s photo then at the flag, fire and life returning to his eyes.

“C’mon Old Glory, one last hurrah.”

Cecil got up and grabbed the flag, carried it downstairs, snatched his Ithaca 37 from the Ford and stood his ground in front of the barn. The shrieks grew louder and the tall thicket ahead swayed violently as they burst forth meeting bullets, Cecil, and Old Glory.

~Fili