[ WP ] Whenever the protagonist blinks , they are sent into an alternate reality .

Around me are the seated faces of my sons, their wives, and their young, who pass bowls and pans and plates full of steaming food, potatoes and sliced ham and gravy, to each outstreched arm and back again. Fourth of July dinners have been in this house for more than a decade. Two decades. Children chatter about things on TV and my sons sit idly spooning food onto their plates while their wives are busy not talking. The children laugh and giggle and squeal, an even split of boys and girls, and the sounds they make are nice in my ears. To my left, my oldest is gesturing toward me with the pan of ham, which he, fumbling at the wrist, drops... *down down we have to pull back fuck em the artillary is too strong too many I said leave them here or we're all going to die all of us*... watery march to Okinawa. All the men I called friends here missing, dead, or worse. Palms with fronds like bayonets. Mortars loud as thunderclaps. In the man-dug holes in this oriental earth wait ambushes or grenade strapped children and all are burned with the fireman's torch. The young ablaze, running but a few feet, the short walk to death, and fall in cindering heaps. Dead will-o-wisps... 
 
... *well we had plans to go to Tahiti but he wanted to see his dad so I did n't really mind Have you been there Have you been to the Caribean... * 
 
 `` Dad,'' says my oldest, holding the pan, `` are you okay? Ham?'' 
 
 I nod. `` Good, yes. Thank you.'' 
 
 I fork some ham slices onto my plate and listen hard, trying to break through idle chatter, let myself hear my grandchildren laughing. Beyond death and taxes, there are only two truths in this world: the cries of children and the regret of the old or soon to die. In all else the devil speaks, such terrible noise, dull and loud and evil. I put the pan on the table. The children shriek and laugh. 
 
 `` Welp,'' says my youngest, clanging fork on glass, `` I've got some news.'' He claps his hands and... *Gina and I are splitting its mutual its just a schedule thing and she cant stand the city and I'd rather die than to have to live in Scottsdale it all makes a lot of sense so*... I met the woman who birthed them while on leave in California in the shouting loudness of a tin can bar. She was a singer and she sat next to me and knew well enough that I did n't want to talk. She ordered brandy on the house and sat with me and we drank them. The bar was quiet with her at my side. Two brandys later she knew my life, three more and I knew hers, and after another we had fallen in what young men call love. Old men know it's lust. She knew what it was always. What remains of her, my memory of her heart and vigor, are now the pillow I scream into. What I sleep and dream upon. Young men fret about growing old, that it's boring, but old men know it's the only place you have to hide, where love can live unhindered. She knew that all along... 
 
 *Dad you're staring again Do n't worry the kids are gon na be with me most of the year*... the children talk and giggle, telling goofy jokes at the opposite end of the table. They look like caricatures of their parents. The youngest girl is a carbon copy of her grandmother. I am happy. Say it again. I am happy... 
 
 *There was nothing we could do* No No No, goddamn you no please. Last moments spent in morphene purgatory. No god please god why *there were complications and the hemourag*... 
 
 `` Dad. Dad what's the matter?'' 
 
 *... through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear... * in a box lowered into the ground *... it was a beautiful service, I'm so sorry for your loss*... flashback is another word for haunting... kill men burn children watch them die for the freedom to sit here and still have to fight back ghosts... *in a better place now*... 
 
 But there is no better place than now. 
 
 `` Dad,'' says my oldest, `` you're alright.'' 
 
 He puts his hand on my hand. Holds it. 
 
 `` Lead us in a prayer,'' says my youngest. 
 
 `` You are the hero, after all.'' Says his brother, looking up from our hands. 
 
 I sigh. `` Alright.'' 
 
 My youngest snaps his head toward the children's noise. `` Shut up. Have some respect. Now hold hands, we're saying grace.'' 
 
 The kids go silent. The youngest girl smiles at me from across the table, sticks her tongue out, giggles... *goddamnit do n't be disrespectful wipe that dumb look off your face and listen*... I asked her to marry me under the bright sound of July fireworks. Yes yes of course. Kiss me... my grandaughter lowered her head, her shoulders slumped, and took the hands on each side of her. 
 
 Between me and the young girl is a table of food, wisps of rising steamy heat, and incredible silence. My sons clear their throats, one after the other, and bow their heads. Their wives' heads' also bowed. My grandaughter peeks up at me with shame-heavy grace. I stick my tongue out and smile at her. 
 
 She is scolded. After dinner I hear her screaming as her father spanks her in another room. The faces of the other children are solemn, unsteady eyes, all quiet and funereal... *in a better place now*... she screams, I can hear her father yelling... I am happy. I am happy. 
 
 Say it again. 
 
 
 ***** 
 EDIT: formatting
