We drove down Bedford St, took the
Hartwell Ave. jughandle, turned right at Westview St., then right again into
the cemetery. Our family plot is just inside the gate. Eventually that entrance
will become the main entrance; who knows if I’ll live to see it change.
Al DeVito, the funeral director, was standing by the grave,
the hearse pulled up alongside the lawn. A large American flag draped the grey
coffin and two young soldiers in dress uniforms stood at either end. The coffin
was on a stretcher with blue woven straps rolled up on the side rails in order
to lower it into the concrete vault seven-feet below the ground. The wheels of
the stretcher were in two metal tracks that traversed the grave lengthwise.
It was foggy when I woke up: a soft light grey with the
promise of sunshine. It wasn’t raining, and we didn’t
hold big black umbrellas like in the movies. So odd, to drive right to
the cemetery, have the coffin
already positioned over the grave, the hearse parked, the funeral director
standing, waiting for the next car to come rather than a procession of little
funeral flags on car fenders,
headlights burning, a flashing
police car leading the way. Instead, a small procession of wild turkeys ambled along the fence,
necks jerking rhythmically, plump from their summer of feeding.
Jim and I walked over to the honor
guard and spoke with them, shook hands. Across the lawn, near the trees, I saw the bugler. More cars drove in and we greeted friends.
Bishop Bement said a few words. Then
the military honors. “Taps” drifted over the lawn in the morning mist. The two
young soldiers with black berets, marched a few steps to the coffin and very
slowly, deliberately and in perfect unison, lifted the four corners of the flag
and moved to the side. The soldier to our right held the star end. Just like I
taught my Cub Scouts to do many years ago, they folded the flag twice
lengthwise. The soldier to our right made small motions with his white gloved
left hand, to keep them in sync. One fold, then left fingers together, a quick twist of the wrist to point the
palm down then sideways, another diagonal fold. The sergeant at the foot of the
coffin seemed very young. They moved slowly, deliberately, and folded it
tightly. The soldier on the right tucked the white edge in to perfect
the triangle. It was the best
folding job I’d ever seen. The young sergeant handed off the triangular folded
flag and saluted. The second soldier drew the triangular flag to his chest and
turned around. To my surprise, Sergeant Bob Bean of Somerville, who has visited
our house, came out of nowhere, received the flag, held it to his chest and
walked over to Jim. I had been holding Victoria, crying, and was grateful I
couldn’t receive the flag. Jim readily did. Sergeant Bean was so earnest and sweetly reverent as he gave Jim
the flag and whispered, "…on behalf of the United States…grateful for David’s
service…"
Jim dedicated the grave, a brief
prayer of safekeeping.
Bryn Jones placed a pretty basket of
purple flowers at the foot of the grave. I was deeply touched by the thoughtful
gift.
Amy Duke gently placed a small bouquet of white mums with a
red, white, and blue ribbon around them on the casket.
R’el, Peter and Xiomara, and Jim and
I stood near the head of the casket and Cami Jones took a family picture. My
favorite picture of the morning is of her eight-year-old Calvin resting his red
head on his five-year old sister’s (Ivy) shoulder. So sad, so sweet.
It is sad. All the things David
won’t ever do in life: hold Ivy on his lap while we sing carols at our Advent
dinners this year, get married, have kids or even enjoy his nephew. He won’t
meet his new niece, Victoria, or have the chance to shower her with avuncular affection.
And of course, since these are lists of ‘won’t ever’ they can include
all sorts of things he might
never have done even if
he had lived and been perfectly healthy down to old age.
But this young death is so final.
He’ll live again, but for us
the living that is a long time away.
And how do I feel, knowing his body
is in that grave? Relief that I finally know where his body is, for the first
time since I watched the hearse’s taillights pull out of our driveway at three
in the morning to deliver it for donation to the UMass Medical Center. Sadness
at the finality of it. There in the grave lies his body; he’s not in Texas with
his Army buddies, not visiting his siblings, not anywhere in the land of the
living.
Goodbye, David.
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