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53 The Homefront When he barks an order she squints into the light as if trying to remember the days when the mere sound of his voice low and throaty summoned her into the room:: those days when it was too hot to take a nap—too hot to stay awake:: these days she rarely looks up when he issues a command despite the two mortar shells he brought home as war souvenirs standing on each side of her chair:: twin shadows falling across her arms as if telling her to hup-two when he calls:: they have been gutted and burnished to a high brass sheen:: how lethal they seem in the muted light of the living room those five-foot sentinels marking the state of siege he laughingly says makes him a hero:: if asked he’ll say: 35 millimeter! so clearly articulated it’s easy for her to forget how his stroke jumbles sounds into halfintelligible phrases:: given the chance he’ll describe how his buddies took the casings from the supply truck just before they shipped out—repeating himself until he sorts the words from the scrabble of his brain—until it is clear that despite the Morse code he must untangle with each sound he remembers what she would rather forget:: the threat of what is unspoken the promise of what could happen how even blind he might find her and open old bruises that still flare when it rains or dinner is late and how long even with one eye open she can hold her ground. ...

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