I pin my ribbons one-eighth of an inch above the pocket. I check it with a ruler three times.
Then Jess fastens the collar.
And every May, Caleb comes out of his bedroom in his navy blazer and stops in the hallway.
He’s eleven now. He’s almost as tall as Jess.
He still stops in the hallway. Every year.
Last year, he said something different.
He looked at me in my dress blues. At the ribbons. At the gold stripes on the sleeve. At the white cap under my arm.
“Grandpa,” he said. “Someday, when you can’t do it anymore, I’m going to wear the uniform.”
He paused.
“Not yours,” he said. “Mine. I’m going to be a corpsman. Like Dad.”
I didn’t say anything for a long time.
I knelt down in front of him. My knees cracked. Both of them. Loudly.
He laughed.
