Saying Goodbye: One Year Later


As I stood outside this morning, I got a sense of déjà vu. My body did not move an inch, but my heart and mind whizzed through this past year to a day last November that looked pretty much just like today. The sky was clear and blue, and the air was just the right amount of cool.

The morning of your memorial, I remember leaning against my car and taking a few deep breaths, drawing in the peace that surrounded me. It was if nature itself was taking pause to salute your life. The leaves twisted and twirled to the ground, landing in silence. The birds held their whistles, and the squirrels and chipmunks treaded so softly across the leaves, you could almost hear their breath. The peace welled up from within and exploded without.

That same peaceful silence returned at your celebration of life service. Again, nature seemed to take pause to salute you just as the men dressed in their Navy blues slowly raised their white-gloved hands in patriotic gratefulness and reverence. Soft sniffles and cries became the audible sounds of hearts not ready to say goodbye and perfectly harmonized with the faint and gentle sounds of the water moving across the rocks in the river below. Your river. Your home. A pandemic may have caused the change of venue from the memorial chapel to the riverbanks of your own backyard, but I’m here to tell you it was absolutely perfect.

I can also tell you this, big brother. When the sound of that bugle began filling the silence with Taps, it was one of the most moving moments I have experienced in almost 60 years of life. The melodic notes that once signaled the end of the soldier’s day perfectly and gracefully signaled the time to symbolically lay you to rest. A silent hero, humble and true, your work on earth was now done and done well at that.

I know it has taken me a little while to be able to put pen to paper, but sometimes when something overwhelms me, it just has to marinate inside a bit. Today, the day before the anniversary of your passing, I want to say thank you, big brother, for being just that—a big brother. Thank you for standing up for me when I was too young to stand up for myself. Thank you for being there every single time I needed you as I became an adult. When life slapped me down, I always could count on you to help pick me back up. I hope I was able to do that for you in at least some small ways over the years. Thank you for opening up to me and for the special bond that we shared as adults. And thank you for being good-looking, especially since I am realizing more and more just how much we actually favor

Most of all, however, thank you for your heart and for your dedication and loyalty to your country and to your entire family.

It was not long after Gary died, that you were diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a frightening disease on its own, but completely devastating when combined with all the other health issues which had plagued you for decades, most of which were probably attributable to Agent Orange.

I watched from the sidelines as you fought like your life depended on it. Of course, your life did depend on it. But, IT wasn’t the real reason you did anything that you did. You fought these diseases with every fiber of your being, not for yourself, but for others, like your wife, and mama, both of who had already been battered by overwhelming loss.

You valiantly fought and bravely endured, just like you did on the blood-drenched soil of Vietnam.

Once a hero, always a hero, I guess.

I love and miss you, Stan. Save my seat at the table.

Missing You Moments


Gary and his convertible

 

Today as I was riding down the road, blue skies and puffy clouds overhead, I saw a convertible Mustang. Convertible Mustangs always make me think of you.

As I pulled up beside it at the red light, I could hear that they were listening to country radio. Singer-Songwriter Cole Swindell was singing “You Should Be Here,” a song he wrote about his beloved and dearly departed dad.

“…Ah this is one of those moments that’s got your name written all over it. And you know that if I have just one wish it’d be that you didn’t have to miss this. Aw you should be here,” the radio blared as memories flooded my soul and overflowed onto my cheeks.

Oh how I wish that it was you behind the wheel. I sure do miss you, brother, but am thankful for the memories and the moments that still have your name all over them.

Amen and Ehmen.