The Gulf was quiet today. Gray. Calm. Like a sleeping pit bull dreaming of his next attack.
The bearded, scarred bartender cleaned the glass, looked around his shop and took a deep breath. The smell of new wood told the story of his life. His bar, like his life, had been rebuilt after the killer hurricane five years ago. He put the glass carefully down. His mind flashed back to the debris.
That happened less and less but was still unsettling when it did. PTSD is what the doctor called it. A nightmare was the term he used. He looked at the pictures on the wall. Many of them were wrinkled and watermarked. Salvaged from the debris. Like so many of the memories of his life.
“Can I have a beer, old timer?” said the college kid with the tan. The kid had better use more sunscreen or he’d end up with a few melanoma scars like old man had.
“Sure,” the bartender said. The kid handed him a debit card (probably his dad’s) and the bartender rang the sale. The bartender checked the kid’s ID and handed him the beer. One more sale. A few more bucks to repay the bank.
The hurricane came in like a rabid beast. Many had not evacuated. “We survived Camille,” they said. Thirty six years later, Hurricane Camille killed her last victims. One of those victims had been his wife. She was on his mantle in an urn now. Right there with his heart. She was the love of his life.
Every morning, the bartender stared at the killer who had taken so much from him. He stared it in the eye. But he had found peace.
A team of college kids on a mission trip had helped him clean the debris off his home’s lot that cold, December day. A young girl from a Catholic church in Allentown, Pennsylvania had found it — His wife’s wedding ring. One of the other kids thought the search for the ring had been stupid. But little did she know they had just done the most Christian thing they’d ever do into their lives: They had helped the bartender heal. They had helped him bring closure to his worst nightmare. His wife had taken the ring off to do the dishes right before the storm hit. The dishes were found a 1/4 mile away. His wife’s body in a tree nearby.
“Nice ring,” the kid said. The bartender startled back to consciousness. He pointed to the ring hanging on the chain around his neck.
“Thank you. It is my reminder that I must rebuild and go on. How precious and fragile life really is”
The kid walked away from him, not understanding what the old man meant. But that was OK. You had to have survived Katrina to understand it. Life on the Gulf Coast wasn’t for the timid. Most things worth living aren’t.
He picked up another glass to wash, stared at the Gulf and gripped the ring one more time. He knew he’d soon see his precious wife again.
He smiled. The clouds parted and the Gulf turned from gray to blue.
