A thousand raindrops splashed across the passenger-side window of my father’s old truck as we pulled out of the cemetery.  I traced one with my finger.

“Make sure you don’t overcook the meat like last time, Daddy,” I said, still following the raindrop.  My Daddy smiled grimly, but he kept his steady gaze on the wheel. My Momma had died from a sudden stroke just three days ago, but Father never did show his pain. Ever since Momma had been in hospital, he always had the same steadiness, his smooth shaven face never frowning but always looking forward. I admired him. Being a soldier, he was used to showing a steady courage, but I knew it was still hard—extremely hard. However brave he was though, his cooking never did measure up to Momma’s.

I shifted in my seat a little and stared out the window. Our truck squeaked and rattled as we hit another stop light. By now we had come into downtown Charlotte, and hundreds of trendy shops and fine restaurants surrounded our rickety old truck. A guy and a girl stood on the curbside, hand in hand with a few large shopping bags. They looked so happy—not a care in the world other than each other. It seemed almost unreal to be so content now.

The rickety old truck pulled into our driveway and we walked up the few cracked concrete stairs into our bland white townhouse. On any other day it would’ve looked homely and comforting, but now it felt empty and blank—as insipid as the faded white paint on the siding. I kicked off my shoes and marched into the dim kitchen. Daddy had his head stuck in the refrigerator. 

“So what’s for supper?”  I asked.  He pulled out two containers of questionable content.

“Well, we won’t have to worry about overcooked meat anyways,” he replied setting the food aside. I scrunched up my nose.

“I’m not surprised. This old thing,” I said pointing to the fridge “is definitely no better working—or looking—than when your dear old Aunt Elda left it to us in her will...” 

“...Bless her heart,” Daddy added unenthusiastically.  Truth be told, no one ever did like the hideous refrigerator.  It sported more coils and motor on the top of it than actual refrigerator; and as much motor as there was, it sure didn’t work well.  Daddy thought a moment and banged the door.

“Feel like eating out?” he asked.

“I think so.”

Half an hour later, we were both sitting at the diner with some sodas and hot dogs.  Besides us, the rest of the diner was buzzing. With Christmas only a few weeks away and World War II raging on, there was plenty to buzz about. I sipped indifferently from a thick red straw. Daddy finished his wiener.

 “I have something to tell you, Cyndi,” he said. This time his steady voice sounded more serious than usual. I looked up at him, then back at my soda.

“They’ve drafted me into the army.” I glanced up at him again, trying not to spit my soda across the room.

“But I don’t have a Momma anymore.” I couldn’t believe that the government could be so cruel as to make me lose my only parent.

“I know,” he replied, steady and gentle as ever, “but there’s nothing I can do. This is my duty.”

I pushed my soda away, because I didn’t feel thirsty anymore. I felt so upset I could cry; only I had cried all my tears out two days ago. But there was nothing to be done. I breathed a sigh and asked instead,

“Where will I go then?” Daddy cleared his throat as he always did before he explained a plan.

“I called your Grandma Elsie yesterday. She has agreed to keep you until the war is over, or until you can make it on your own.”

I tried not to argue back. I hated the plan. It was bad enough being left alone, but with a grandparent that I had never seen since I was a baby was worse. And possibly until I could make it on my own! That would be in five years when I turned 18. Plus, my Grandma Elsie lived in Abbeville, South Carolina—a real broken up backwoods town. But there was no point in saying anything about it.

“I’m full,” I stated.

“Then we’ll go,” came the reply.

That night I lay in bed and thought about things. I thought about my mother’s wavy black hair and bright green eyes. I had her green eyes and wavy hair, even though it was brown like my Daddy’s. I thought about the war, almost wishing that I could fight. I wasn’t quite sure of all the reasons for fighting, but I was so frustrated that I could kill someone. But then I remembered what Daddy used to say, “Always face the problems you can’t control with strength. Face ‘em head on.” I pulled the cover tighter over my chin.

“All right, I will face Abbeville and aloneness head on,” I resolved.  Then I closed my eyes and cried myself to sleep.  Guess I hadn't cried all my tears out after all.