The shades were down in his room, but I could still sense the light from the kitchen behind me. My mom held my hand. I was eight.

"He wants to see you.”

I didn't respond, I just stopped walking, and looked down. I had stopped right where the faded linoleum floor met the dark green carpet. I blushed and watched my Mom's bare feet to see if she was still moving. I didn't want to go, because he probably didn't even know who I was anymore, and I never really knew who he was, anyway, and because I was eight years old.

Years later I'll proudly talk about how he got a tank up the beach in Normandy. I bet he felt the same way then that I felt as a boy, staring forward into the darkness.

Max Barth is a writer and occasional stand-up comedian. He lives in Ithaca, NY.