"Ready for our glory days?" The man spoke louder than any of us had been whispering. Eyes opened. Whites glowing orange reflecting the embers of the sticks torched. No fire-ring, no rocks circling for safety. He chucked a message made palm-size spitball into the water.
One woman grabbed the hilt of a dagger stapped above boot. Seashell-pressed decor on a strip of handle. A sister's hand on her's to calm. "It ain't glory if we dead." Someone drew in a breath and put finger on trigger of the gun alongside the wedding ring guard. The sisters looked at each other. "That's what mama said."
"Glory's when we dead fool."
The trees started taking shape. Someone moved off to pee. It hadn't been a lecture. 'Bout truth and lies, conveying fluid, keeping up esteem. A guitar player spit strangly bacca juice into the sand. "She'll do it," he spoke for his singing partner.
The man's hand moved towards the whimpering and blocked the launch of the compass into the water. He spoke in the direction of another of us, "Don't salute me like you're a pine tree out there." He put both hands around the boy who couldn't make the compass work. The boy collapsed into the hug. "How'd you get here?"
He slid his snots backwards from coming apart and told, "Snuck behind the sun coming up."
"Well then, you've mastered going East!" The boy broke from the hug.
"Okay, then I'll be the Pops today," the military mom told the three and four year old.
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