The story today is written by my friend, Beth Hill. She writes stories with a lot of emotional impact and I thoroughly enjoy reading her short stories. I hope you will too.
She never spoke. Never whispered. Never cried.
She turned him gently, lifted his fingers, his hands, his arms. Leaving no part untouched or unwashed. She gave his body the attention he’d not allowed her in life. Not because he’d minded the attention. But because he was never with her long enough to satisfy her curiosity, her need to discover the himness of him.
I helped her move him, though his weight was less than I expected. He’d always seemed a big man to me. But that was mere memory from a child’s eyes. Though great in reputation, he was an ordinary man in build.
And yet, she treated him as if he were large in every way. To her, perhaps he was. A giant of a man in her world. A giant she’d never fully known. A giant she’d had to give up way too soon.
We dressed him in his uniform. She would have wanted to do it without my help, but she was a realist. We worked in silent unison, making sure he was perfectly turned out for his final appearance.
Other officers would pass by, looking at him, wondering what had made him the leader he was. Subordinates would salute, admiring his courage one last time. The President would offer his respects.
He wouldn’t accept looking anything less than faultless.
And she would stand by his side the while, doing her duty as he’d done his for so many years.
And no one would know the grief that had racked her when she’d finally faced it. Faced that he was gone. Faced the pitiless truth that an unseen enemy had sneaked past his defenses, had set up camp within his body, had destroyed him from within while he’d been so ably defending his country in a desert far from home and from her.
I watched as my mother brushed the hair from his brow one final time. As she kissed his lips, gently. So gently. As she closed her eyes while the attendants arranged him in the casket.
I tried to be thankful, this last week of November. Tried to list the blessings of having had this man as my example, my mentor, my friend.
But I’d lost the ability to thank God for anything this week.
I’d remember to be thankful again. Soon. But for today, today I would grieve as only a son can. Today I would stand before a grateful nation and accept their condolences.
Today I would speak the words that showed the world what I thought of my father.
Words he’d never hear.
Words I should have told him last week and last year and all the weeks and years before.
Words of thanksgiving that needed no holiday to be spoken.
She slipped her hand into mine. And squeezed. Gently.
“He knew, Thomas,” she said. “He always knew.” Her fingertips brushed the casket as the men rolled it past. Then she lifted her face to mine. “Our love was his strength. It freed him to be the man he was destined to be, fueled his steps and his thoughts and his dreams. He loved me. He admired you. And now we say our public goodbyes. As is fitting for his family.”
“Mom . . . ”
She shook her head. And released my hand.
And we followed his lead, though once again we could not follow him into battle. He would go first, as was his way. And we’d remain behind. But we wouldn’t forget. We’d never forgotten him while he was away.
I’d live as he’d taught me to, with honor and strength. And I’d think of him where he was, no longer in a desert, but in a strange land nonetheless. And soon I’d be smiling, imagining what he was doing. Just as I’d done as a child picturing him in foreign places.
And I’d be thankful for having known him, for having been touched by him, for having been loved by him.
Not always gently, but well and completely.
And I would ask God to watch over him there in his final duty station, knowing that He would. That He would make sure he knew I loved him. Knew I would be the man he raised me to be. That I would be the legacy he deserved.
That I would love fiercely.
Act wisely.
And walk boldly into both battle and peace. As he had taught me.
As he had done.
~*~*~*~
Beth Hill is a Freelance fiction editor. She loves the written word, the ability we have to create worlds and emotions with well-chosen phrases. Beth is firmly convinced that all writers can touch their readers, that they can craft marvelous stories to entertain and satisfy those readers. The articles at The Editor’s Blog are intended to help writers create the best stories they can, no matter where they are on their career path.
