Sunday morning’s air was heavier with its coolness, amplifying the whump-wump-wump of massive rotors. There wasn’t a plausible reason for two, fully-armed Apache helicopters to fly over my house at 7:30AM.
I hadn’t witnessed anything like it before.
As if automatic, something compelled me to stand and salute as they approached and passed.
At 7:30AM exactly two years ago, I was advised my brother was gone and the coroner was still there, just five feet from the weeping caller and my brother’s remains.
He was retired Air Force and nobody can convince me that Sunday's fly-over wasn’t some kind of sign.
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