Of Roses and Rifles

I was rummaging through old family photos when one punched me in the gut. The picture was so vibrant, so warm, so full of life. With his million ruble smile, Papa held me and a red rose, the stem almost as long as my pale body. His left hand, scarred and calloused from war and work, already had the iconic lapis lazuli golden ring. For a moment, I wondered if he used to carry the rifle on the same arm in his youth.