Let me tell you about Spanish Moss. Let me tell you about horsehair beards. I tangle my mind between the branches. I’m hyper vigilant about growth. The moisture pulls through the air, but it’s not enough for the moss or me.

“I told you already, it’s grandpas beard. The same kind they stuffed in your mattress,” he was adamant about this fact.

“Well, who are they?”

“The ones that run this world, and make the decisions and wax whimsically but don’t get anything fucking done.”

“I understand.”

When he gets this way it’s an impossible fight. It’s one not even worth winning. I tell myself this often enough to know that even I’m immune to it. I keep my head down, counting the control cracks in the cement walkway as we walk toward the park. Occasionally, I’ll sneak a side glace in his direction. I only ever manage his profile. It’s hard to imagine how we’ve ended up here. How he ended up here.

PTSD. Instability. Death. Mental illness.

The military doesn’t prepare families for the after. They don’t have crash courses on what to say, but more aptly what not to say when they return. There needs to be a manual written from the perspective of a grieving relative. We, of course, aren’t mourning a physical loss but the emotional and mental loss of the person we once knew. The person I used to know.

“Cass, why don’t you believe me when I tell you these things? Do you really think they don’t stuff the mattress with it? God knows what else they put it in. I mean just look at it hanging and floating up there just waiting to be forcefully ripped from the branches. Why would they just leave it there?”

“But who is they?”

“We’ve been over this! You’re impossible. Do you think it resembles my beard?”

“Sure. Yes.”

I repeatedly tell myself that the man I’m having this conversation with isn’t the man I know. He isn’t my family. The man I knew, the man I loved is no longer here and he hasn’t been for years. The man I knew never even looked up. The man I knew would hold my hand and ask questions of me, neglecting himself in a selfless and humble way, though he had far more intellect and possessed the art of storytelling more than I’d ever grasp. I don’t know what to say, to speak of or to share. He expects more than I can give. He is expecting someone else.

Our steps will lead us around the bend and directly into the main entrance of the park. His mood might worsen but I take the chance.

“Pop, you know I’m not Cass, right?”

“You peasant girl, don’t talk back. It’s unbecoming. Did you polish my boots today?”

I count my steps and look up wishing I could count the hairs in grandpas beard. It would take an eternity, yet still be short on time.

# # #

Ashley Lynn Scheffler Bhasin is an emerging writer based in Pennsylvania. She is a graduate of Lehigh University and The Pennsylvania State University.

Photo: Ales Dusa