Saturday, June 15, 2013

Sweet Chariot

When my little brother who was an infant for 17 years died, my father, a vet, had him buried in his personal plot in the local Vet cemetery after reaching agreement with the unit board.

Upon dad's death, (so was stipulated) Stevie would be exhumed, my father’s casket placed and then Stevie's re-placed atop his. It took many meetings and the fudging of more than one rule to make this happen, but in the end, it did indeed happen as planned.

Why such a fuss? What could possibly drive my father to wade through a Federal bureaucratic nightmare to force a seemingly unimportant, highly irregular request to come to fruition?

He wanted his youngest, most fragile and most deeply loved son to be cradled in his arms for all of eternity.

My father the cynic, the loner, the angryman...the man who scoffed at religion, at icons, at any meaning beyond the surface...the man who never talked about his feelings nor would listen to others describe theirs...the man who for 90% of his life would not cry, would not touch, would not show an ounce of pain, would not say, write, or otherwise acknowledge the word love...

This man by raw unfettered and unapologetic emotion alone created an incredibly beautiful, timeless metaphor; a symbolism that he believed in so strongly that he'd fight city hall to see his wish come true.

If you ever think my writing to be spiritually moving, be assured that it's not my skill that creates the illusion... it's my witness of grace beyond my capacity, and actions beyond my comprehension.

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