The Hero and the Stewardess

In about a week, we will bury my grandmother next to my grandfather in Arlington National Cemetery. I've been thinking about this and about her passing, so I wanted to share something I wrote years ago after my granddad passed away. Granddad was a successful military man, rising up the ranks and earning accommodations. I don't think he could have done it without my grandmother. She was supportive, vivacious, adventurous, creative, and caring. Her amazing spirit touched us all and taught us to be lovers of life; she was a hero too. She was always by his side and she will return there on Monday. Tutu, we love you.

      The Day After  

The sky was heavy and grey like the uniform of a cadet, like the walls of my mother’s memory. She has told me of the monochromatic, Virginian army base that was once her childhood home. Purple violets creeping through the stones were the only things that, for her, broke through the cloudy shades of slate; they were the only vividness among the endless uniforms, the neighbor’s dusty Labrador, the rock walls, and the loneliness I am sure she felt. Her father was an ambitious officer and her mother was an ambitious officer’s wife. Years later, far removed from this Army base of my mother’s memory, the grey pangs of loneliness had returned, but they were felt by all of us now. The General had died.  

We had gathered in Arlington. That day was one of those autopilot days, a day when everything happens around you, when you numbly witness events as if you’re riding on one of those long, moving sidewalks in the airport terminal. The funeral day was cold and crisp but full of sun; it was also full of pomp and circumstance. My senses witnessed the grand military band, the black shiny horse pulling the black shiny carriage transporting the black shiny casket, the bagpipes’ haunting moan and the fully-kilted musician, the canons, the stars and stripes, the fields of flowers weaved into wreaths, and the ceaseless rows of bone-white headstones—my senses witnessed these things but my heart could not fully appreciate them. I was an anesthetized observer; although I was surrounded by trumpets, vibrant flags and garlands, to me, everything appeared in muted grayscale. I appreciated all of the honors because my Granddad, the three-star General, deserved them, but my Granddad, the cartoon-loving, bird-watching, story-teller didn’t seem to be part of them. 

The following day, our hearts sank further into that lonely sadness of loss; our spirits were dim like the cloudy sky. The sunlight was heavily veiled. My brothers and I decided to return to the grave site to say our final goodbyes. On this day, we encountered groups of tourists, busses, and did not have the band leading us down the long pathway. We struggled to find the grave because we were not allowed through the same entrance; on this day, we were the general public.

After hiking  quite a distance, and using a map to find Granddad’s resting place, we stood before the temporary headstone as a mist of rain began falling on us. We were quiet. There were no pipes or prayers. We hung our heads, letting our tears fall with the rain. We heard only the sounds of our internal dialogues “Goodbye Granddad, I love you. Thank you.” Then something encouraged our weighted brows to lift towards the sky. The dull background above was contrasted by moving black and white, and the honking sounds of geese interrupted the wall of silence. A few feet above us, three large Canadian geese flew low in perfect formation. After they passed, my brother and I instinctively turned to one another. The geese, like the ones he loved to watch, were his three stars. We recognized the same thought in each other’s tear-filled eyes, “It’s Granddad.” We felt connection. We felt comfort. We embraced. On the day after the funeral, that dreary unceremonious day, we truly felt the spark of his spirit; the black and white bodies of the birds moving across the overcast sky became our violets in the wall. 

❤