My Father's Passing

A Tiny 82nd Birthday Anniversary Celebration

My father died on Tuesday, September 13th.  It was twelve days after his 82nd Birthday Anniversary, and thirty-seven days shy of his 60th Wedding Anniversary.  I heard the news at 9:10a. . .a 43 second phone call.  I was returning my brother’s call; his wife Kelly answered the phone.  I don’t remember what she said; she was crying, and that was enough to know what had happened.  I could hear my brother sobbing in the background as I hung up the phone.

I wish I could say the rest of the week was a blur, like that phone call.  In truth it was mostly focusing on practical things - scheduling time off from work, and making sure any projects were being handled.  Determining where to stay while we attended the services.  Any detail was worth focusing on if it could cast a shroud over those 43 seconds, and our family’s reality.

On Sunday, September 18th - sixteen days after I last saw my father, we attended the Viewing.  Holding my Mom as she leaned over to kiss my father one last time.  Her weathered hands rubbing his gently, as if she was trying to restore some semblance of warmth to his fingers.  Hugging my wife Priya when she said her good-byes.

Three Shells - Duty, Honor, Country

Eventually, the tears turned to stories.  Ordinary stories about Dad, made grand by his passing.  Some conversations seemed apropos of nothing - talk of hair styles or dresses; my aunt talking about a recent visit to the hospital.  For a moment it felt like a poorly catered cocktail party, with my father’s body on display.  But then I remembered how I grieved in those first few days - focusing on any random detail to hide from our situation.

I spent a great deal of time standing by his side.  He was dressed in his Air Force Blues, resting in a casket he had picked out for himself a decade earlier.  The inside lid of the coffin had three birds in flight, set against a light blue background, with the words “Going Home” embroidered upon it.  A folded flag was by his head, and his medals were resting against the opened lid.

It was the last time I would actually see him; what would remain are photographs, videos, and memories.

The funeral mass was held at St. Jerome’s; my parents' church for as long as I can remember.  Beyond our extended family, his fellow Ushers were in attendance.  Having been raised Catholic, it was an oddly familiar ritual; the incense, the repetition of prayers.  The only peace I found there was the knowledge that it was all proceeding exactly as my Dad wanted.  He was not a perfect Catholic, and his humor often bordered on the heretical, but he was forever devout.

At the graveside, I was seated directly in front of his casket, my Mom on my left and Priya on my right.  A short bit away stood the rifle team, preparing to fire their three volleys.  Shots were fired; arms were presented.  And then they played Taps.

I’ve only ever experienced Taps on television, or in the movies.  The camera slowly panning across a mournful crowd.  It was different in the flesh.  More hollow; more final.

Words were said.  A young man and woman, dressed in Air Force Blues, prepared the flag that adorned my father’s casket; folding it with precision and presenting it to my mother “on behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation.”

On behalf of the President of the United States. . .

Each of the family members placed flowers on Dad’s casket, and we retreated to the funeral home as the burial workers attended to the practicalities of setting my father in his final resting place.   I have no idea why the services stopped short of him being lowered into the grave.  Perhaps it was simple pragmatics related to the burial site.  Perhaps it was my father’s wishes.  When they first began leading us away I wanted to argue; to stand firm to witness the very end.  But I kept my rage quiet, and simply walked to the open grave to peer in.  My brother joined me and we commented on the workmanship of the grave before rejoining the procession.

The rest of the day was filled with more stories, told over tears and laughter.  Ultimately, the shared experiences all struck the same message; Dad was a gruff, violently opinionated curmudgeon that would move heaven and earth to help family or friends.