HE WORE MY FACE

I was halfway across the field, running over fresh-cut grass that smelled like mustard greens, when another bomb popped in the sky like a balloon. Fire ricocheted across the darkness, yellow and red flames crossing like a burning grid. The harsh scent of gunpowder filled my nostrils as I ran faster and heard men yelling in the distance, getting closer by the second. The lawn glistened with moisture, and every step felt like cutting across a green ice-skating rink. I only trusted three things: my knife, my amethyst, and my legs. Lately, even my legs had started betraying me, burning like fire inside my pants every time I ran.

I’m an older soldier now. I can’t run like I used to. My chest tightened like a fist around my ribcage, and I knew I had to stop soon and prepare for a fight. All I had for protection was a Damascus steel pocketknife I had kept close for decades. It was the only thing I truly trusted, the one thing that had gotten me out of plenty of bad situations.

“Derrick, stop!” the smallest one yelled.

He was the fastest, gaining on me quick, like some robotic military dog. Their shadows moved like a hunting pack at dusk, and I could smell gunpowder and combat in the air. This could be the end. These new soldiers and this new warfare were too advanced. I knew the smallest one would eventually catch me from behind, so my best move was to stop, turn around, and face them head-on. Me and my good old reliable knife.

There they stood, three strong soldiers in front of me. Broad-shouldered. Athletic. Breathing hard. Football bodies. Young faces. Dangerous in a world like this.

“Don’t touch me!” I snapped. The cold sweat rolled down my face and dripped off my chin.

“We’re trying to get you somewhere safe,” the biggest one said.

“Safe my ass. Leave me alone,” I shouted back. Another boom rolled across the sky. My ears rang. I looked up through the trees, half expecting fire to tear open the clouds again.

The smallest one stepped forward carefully. “Please. Just give me the knife, and I swear nobody’s gone hurt you.”

He said it with a big smile that made me ease up, just a little. His voice did something to me. A strange pull. Familiar. Warm. I hated that. He smiled again, sad and hopeful all at once. “Trade you.” He held out an amethyst stone on a cord that looked just like mine.

I stared at it. Purple. Smooth. Real. How did he have that? My hand loosened before my mind could stop it. I passed him the knife, and he gave me the stone.

“It’s how we tracked you,” the biggest one said, just before he made a quick, offensive-lineman-type move around me and grabbed hold of my arms.

For a second, it felt good. A battle. Something to keep me feeling alive.

But I was taken down easy, especially after I lunged for the smallest one, trying to choke the little traitor who had smiled in my face and taken my trust with him.

“Let’s go! Let’s get back and eat!” they shouted, laughing in unison.

They carried me by my arms and legs like a tired child after a long day. The wet smell of grass and mud filled my nose as another explosion sounded in the distance. But this time, when I looked up, the sky was bursting with rainbow colors, showers of gold glittering beside red and blue flames.

Then another smell drifted toward me. Marinated beef on a grill. Onions and peppers. Smoke rolling through the air like warm mist. A feeling of déjà vu brushed over me like a blanket fresh out of the dryer as a sky-blue house came into view.

Warm lights. An open door. At least twenty people waiting inside, all ages, all watching. The smell of roasted meat, onions, and fresh bread wrapped around me. I saw a feast spread out before my eyes as they carried me to a deep, pillowed couch. On the table in front of me sat a chessboard with hand-carved walnut pieces, each one marked with initials. I saw hot dogs, potato salad, and crispy golden fried chicken. I could smell boiled eggs, sweet cake, and fresh bread all at once. The red velvet cake smelled like sugar, cocoa, and something holy all mixed together.

“Where am I?” I asked. “Can I have some of that food, please?” My stomach rumbled hard. My mouth watered as the smells surrounded me without mercy.

“Of course, silly. You always run when the memories switch,” Nara said. She walked over with a plate while everyone around her stared, whispered, and smiled. The younger kids and teens were glued to their tablets and phones like they barely noticed the adults. American flags decorated cakes and sweet breads, and I could smell sugar and whipped cream in the air.

Children. Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren. At the center stood Nara, ninety-eight years old, smiling like moonlight in a storm. Then the memories came….

They rushed into my head like a wave crashing onto the shore at Myrtle Beach on the Fourth of July. I looked back at the smallest soldier as he shoved a red, white, and blue cupcake into his mouth in two bites. I studied his face again.

Mine, a little, I thought. And then I knew. Not enemies. My blood. My great-grandsons. I yelled a name. Everyone cheered softly, like they thought I had suddenly remembered every name in that crowded house. I shouted out a few names anyway, like a child in class fighting to get the answer right.

“He fast as hell for a hundred-year-old,” the youngest one said, still eating in his JROTC uniform.

I knew him. That was my great grandson, Anthony Allen. He looked like a younger version of me, almost like God had copied my face and given it a new life. He was tall, athletic, and full of that strength young men carry so easily. His shoulders were wide, his face sharp, and his longer hair stuck to his forehead from sweat as he ate. Even out of breath, he looked powerful. Still, there was something gentle in his eyes when he looked at me. Something that told me I was safe. Regardless, I still felt like I had just come back from war. Maybe I had. Maybe I have been fighting through fear and memory, trying to find my way back to the people who belonged to me.

Then Nara took my hand and kissed it. “You are home, my love,” she said.

And in that moment, my soul seemed to remember before my mind ever could. Home. Laptop. Parks. Quiet evenings. Good food. Family. Safety. And yet, somewhere beyond the window, bombs still fell in the other life, and a twenty-year-old version of me was still out there fighting to save them all.

Maybe both worlds were real. Maybe love was the only thing strong enough to follow me back from either one.

I realized then that love has its own kind of reincarnation. It leaves, it grieves, it sleeps for years of silence. Then somehow it returns, reborn in a scent, a taste, a face, a feeling you cannot explain. And maybe memory is not just about what we can recall, but about what our hearts refused to forget.

Derrick Allen is a writer and content creator from North Carolina. His work is shaped by real life, long workdays, fatherhood, and the responsibility of showing up for the people who count on him. While working full time and continuing his education, he finds inspiration in humor, chess, history, and the everyday moments most people overlook. His writing blends grit, honesty, and emotion, with stories that reflect survival, curiosity, and a life still being built one day at a time.