My memories are scattered, like dry
leaves that refuse to be gathered in the grey winds of hidden pain. Like sparks
of light I can see tiny touch points, a glimpse into who I was in the days and
months and early years after he was gone. Years later I still avoid them,
afraid to see what death had done to me.
Funerals steeped in the formality of
service, courage, brotherhood and family are breathtakingly painful
celebrations of life. Beautiful expressions of sorrow and pride, rigid formations
of uniformed peers honor one lost from their ranks and in that moment the ones
we stand behind let us see beyond their fortitude to the emotions within. The
flag folded with precision and presented on bent knee. Shots fired in the
silent air. Hands at brows in sharp salute. Quiet words of remembrance, honor
and sorrow spoken.
But it is the cry of the bagpipes that leaves
the deepest mark.
Breaking the silence, the melancholy
wail begins in awkward loneliness and swells in celebration and grief until it
fills your soul and moves you to want to become something more than you are at
that very moment.
For the one left behind, it is entirely
more painful and enduring.
Like a stain, it lingers in your memory
long after the flowers wilt and the sound of gunfire and bells fade, an eternal
reminder of what has been lost. From that moment on, the sound is forever woven into the memories of your pain and yet it is a sound your soul embraces
for the strength it offers in those weakest of moments.
Sifting through the debris in my
memory, I see him standing alone in the tartan and trappings of
tradition. I watched him as he watched me, each of us preparing for the coming
ritual of honor. His bagpipes in hand I stared numbly at him, silently
comforted by the gift he was preparing. He gazed on me as I held her tiny hand
and walked away from the storm to calm us both. With the curiosity and
innocence of a child who did not understand the day, she whispered to me.
Who’s
that? Why is he wearing that funny hat?
He is
here to celebrate your Daddy, sweetheart.
In the picture he is simply a man I
do not know, a man lost too soon in a way that does not make sense. But I know
those proud eyes and the memory of his kindness lingers with the calling of the
pipes in the deepest recesses of my memories. While the ones left behind face a
new day with his memory, their loss reverberates against my own. In his desire
to serve and honor the fallen, he is indelibly wrapped in the memories of those
they left behind. Through the pipes, he reminded us all that memories linger eternally
and that somewhere deep within our hearts and souls, as broken as they were in
that moment, was a strength we had not yet realized.
The pipes will soon swell for him
and the ones he loved. And when they do, we will silently thank him.
For the gift that lingers still.
