Maggie! Stop yanking,” I said sharply. “We’ve got to keep going; Dad’s coming home today.”

Maggie looked at me with her usual indignant expression as of I didn’t understand that a good smell was the essence of a dog’s life and must be explored. She pulled harder toward the odor, I pulled harder away.

“Not today,” Maggie. I just couldn’t indulge Maggie, although Dad did many times.

I yanked the leash, jerking her neck.

“I said let’s go! Dad’s coming home today!”

A fireplace oak aroma drifted in our direction; I drew it in; it reminded me of those mornings when Dad, Maggie and I had walked through the silent, darkened neighborhood on those crisp winter days leading up to Christmas, an event in our family’s life that both excited and energized my father. As early as Thanksgiving, he was planning the lights that adorned our house, with me and my sister eagerly anticipating his designs.

But this morning, as the chill streamed from my breath, my anticipation was absorbed by the thought that Dad would be coming home after a year in Iraq.

This morning, Maggie and I walked home silently, only the scuffle of her paws and the shuffle of my feet pierced the crisp December air.

What a year it had been.

T welve months ago, give a week or two, the musky aroma of fireplace oak swirled through the air. Maggie, the mutt our family had rescued from the animal shelter six years earlier, wriggled at the end of her leash, pulling me to smell something on a fence post.

“There she goes again,” Dad said, chuckling.

My Dad and I inhaled oaken aroma of a fireplace nearby on our morning walk, the same path we had trod nearly every morning for years. Only rain or early morning Bible study for me and my sister Laura were the exceptions … not the sweltering heat of summer nor the icy chill of winter stopped us.

Dad, the perky one in the morning, was chatty this morning two weeks before Christmas, three weeks before he was scheduled to ship out to Iraq.

“Reminds me of Scout campouts,” Dad said, with his nose sniffing the air. “Those cool mornings sliding out of the tents and stoking the overnight coals, cooking – sometimes burning – breakfast. Ahhh, what a smell. Remember that, Son?”

We had spent 10 years in Scouts, Dad as a leader, me as a learner, from Tiger Cubs to Eagle. Dad is one of those trooper kind of guys … you know … one foot in front of the other … stand tall .. grin and bear it. Me, I’d rather be in my warm bed.

“Who could forget it,” I replied. “’Specially the burnt breakfast.”

We walked a ways, when I asked, “All packed, Dad?” It wasn’t a question as much as a thought.

“All set, Son,” Dad said, then he fell silent.

I sensed anxiety, didn’t I? I sensed reluctance, didn’t I?

My brave Dad must have some reservations, mustn’t he?

Before we made the last turn home, he spoke.

“Buddy, while I’m gone you’ll be the man of the house; you know about the computer; you can fix the vacuum; you know where the spare keys are; you know a lot.”

I realized this was one of those moments, an important moment, welcomed or not, it was here.

“Your mother might cry and your sister might fuss, but it won’t be because of you. You might get angry, too. It’s all right. It’s at those times you’ll need to be strong. Buddy, I’m asking a lot of you, but I know you can do it … be the person they need to lean on. Never forget that I love you.”

“No problem, Dad, no problem,” I said. “I love you, too.”

The word, “love,” enveloped us like a manly cologne, an afternoon on the couch watching the Saints, like a morning walking Maggie, like a movie together at the theatre, like floating in the boat casting for bass, like the silence in the deer stand, like so many moments with my Dad that I cannot describe because a teen-age boy lacks the flowers in his voice, lacks the words in his heart, lacks the wisdom in his soul … but he wishes nonetheless to share with himself and the world the beauty of his relationship with his Dad.

* * *

“They’re here!” Mom hollered from downstairs. Dad was in their bedroom finishing packing; I was in my room listening to music. It was three days after Christmas; three of the best days with Dad I have ever had. Despite Mom’s protests, we had outdone ourselves with outside lights, with oh-so-many tree decorations, with Christmas music playing, and with those spicy scented candles … too much? … naw … not for us.

That morning, heaviness gripped me as though my heart had become lead; I felt like grabbing Dad and squeezing him so tightly he’d never be able to leave. I didn’t. We stood at the top of the stairs with Mom and Laura waiting downstairs.

“Son,” he said with his strong hand on my shoulder. “I’ll say a special prayer for you in the morning and evening every day without fail. I’ll never stop thinking about you.”

“Me, too, Dad,” I said, swallowing hard and clenching my teeth; I felt tears forming in the back of my eyes, hoping they would stay there.

And Mom, Laura and I watched as Dad slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and headed down the front steps. He turned and looked back at me with a glint in his eye and a smile on his face. And then he was gone. The sound of the blue military bus door slamming shut still resonates in my ears; the chug-chug of the bus as it drove from our home still screams in my mind; the confident smile of my Dad as he looked back from the window still fills my heart … even now a year later.

Mom, Laura and I stood there on the front lawn staring until the bus was out of sight. At that moment, I realized what my Dad meant when he said, “You’re the man of the house.”

My mom cried; so did Laura. I clenched my teeth forcing those tears to stay back. And we gripped each other tightly, there on the front lawn.

“Hey,” I said. “Not to worry; he’ll be back; he’s Dad; he’s tough. I’ll take care of you two.”

Mom wiped her tears, rubbed my hair and said, “I’m sure you will, Son. And we’ll all take care of each other.”

And then I realized a truth that hit me hard. I realized I had squandered so many moments that I could have spent with Dad. Moments I could have shared my feelings, moments I could have asked him about his feelings, moments when I could have learned more about this man who shaped my life so much.

In his absence I tried hard. I took out the trash. I walked Maggie. I did my homework. I washed the dishes. I hugged Mom and Laura frequently. I tried hard to be the man my Dad needed me to be; I tried hard to be the man I had come to realize my Dad is.

Dad sent letters and e-mails frequently but didn’t say much about the war. But we all knew the dangers he and his buddies faced. Each time we read or heard about soldiers being killed, we tensed, praying for his safety, praying not to hear the doorbell ring with bad news.

To do our part, my classmates and I made gift boxes of toiletries, snacks, water, and more – and wrote notes to Dad and the other fathers and their buddies who we prayed for every day just after the Pledge of Allegiance. And, I remembered Dad’s pledge that he would say a special prayer for me. But I think he needed our prayers more than we needed his.

* * *

That year, I learned I really could be the person Dad thought I could be. I fixed the shingles; I patched that hole in the wall; I got Laura to school on time; I helped with the laundry; and, yes, I got to church every Sunday … well, almost every Sunday.

But I screwed up, too … I was caught speeding … I bombed my Chemistry test … I got angry at Laura … I screwed up. If I could be Dad I would have, but I realized I could be only me.

The night before Dad returned, Mom sat Laura and me down at the kitchen table. We had agreed to delay Christmas until after Dad returned; he would be present enough, we decided.

“As you know, your father’s coming back tomorrow,” Mom said. We became almost giddy at those words. We had prepared a large banner – “Welcome Home!” – that we tied across the railing on our front porch; we planned his favorite meal, we cleaned the house, and we had set up the thousands of Christmas lights just as we had done the year before. Things were just perfect for his return.

Mom reached out and grasped our hands.

“Your Dad has, well, changed. Iraq was tough, really tough. A month ago, his vehicle was hit with one of those roadside bombs. Two of his buddies died, but your Dad’s life was spared, but not without a price,” Mom said solemnly. He didn’t want me to tell you until he was on his way home. Tomorrow, I want you to see the Dad you remember, not the Dad you see.”

* * *

“He’s here!” Mom yelled.

I closed my schoolbook and raced downstairs, my heart pounded hard with both exhilaration and anxiety. Mom, Kristi and Laura were on the front porch, the very porch where we tossed kisses and waves almost a year ago in the chilly December air. Today, we were hot with anticipation … He was home.

A blue military van – not a bus – pulled into our driveway. Unmistakably, Dad’s face beamed in the back window. My heart jumped ten feet from my chest. We all grinned almost to a laugh; he was home … home … to us … to us.

The driver of the van got out and walked to my dad’s side and slid the door aside.

And there he was, my Dad … not the straight, solid man I knew, but a soldier in a wheelchair. His legs were gone. I gulped.

The soldier helped Dad from the van; my mom wrapped her arms around my Dad and kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Welcome home, Honey; Welcome home!”

I grabbed Laura’s hand and walked to our Dad. We stood there looking.

“C’mere, give your Dad a hug,” he said, arms outstretched.

“It’s okay; I’m still your Dad,” he said, turning his head and winking. Laura walked carefully to Dad while I stood stiff with a half-grin. I felt like crap; this isn’t what my father had taught me … this isn’t what the man of the house would do.

And then I looked into his eyes and realized he was hurting as much as I was. I winked and smiled; he did, too.

“Welcome home, Dad,” I said. “Welcome home.”

This time, I reached my hand to his; his grip so familiar; his clench so welcoming; his touch so strong.

The man of the house was back.

I grinned and bent down and hugged him tight.

He wrapped his arms around me as he had done so many times before Iraq.

“I missed you so much, Son,” he whispered in my ear.

“I missed you, too,” I whispered back. Those tears that I had held so well let loose. “I missed you, too.”

“I’m gonna need your help some more, Son,” Dad said.

“Anything, Dad, just name it.”

* * *

The day after Dad returned home, he was up at seven o’clock knocking on my door.

“Hey, Buddy, it’s time to get up. Maggie needs a walk.”

And, so we bundled up, leashed Maggie, and headed out on another crisp December morning with the earthy smells of oak burning in fireplaces in the air.

I pushed Dad’s chair; he hung onto Maggie’s leash.

We walked in silence, only the sound of Maggie’s shuffling paws and Dad’s wheelchair rolling over dead leaves punctured the quiet.

I just didn’t know what to say.

We turned the street corner heading home.

He raised his hand and I stopped.

He turned his chair and looked at me.

“You did good, Buddy, real good.”

He winked and grinned just as he did the morning he left for Iraq.

“I tried, Dad, I tried.”

“No, Son, you did more than try; you did good.”

He opened his arms to me.

I fell into his embrace.

And there below the pecan trees, in the winter chill, we melted in each other’s arms.

He whispered, “I love you, Buddy.”

“Me, too, Dad; me, too.”

Each year at Christmas time, local author G. Mark LaFrancis writes an original short story which he shares with readers of The Democrat

This year, the story’s theme corresponds with the collection of poetry he has been writing: “In Their Boots: Poems Inspired By Soldiers and Their Loved Ones,” based on conversations LaFrancis has had with soldiers from Iraq and their loved ones.