24 guns

My dad died four and a half years ago. He's been sitting on my mantle ever since.

Not because we're weird like that, or all Addams Family, or just couldn't let go. No, the reasons are a little more basic. He died the same day that my Grandma was having life-saving surgery - she couldn't even get out of the hospital to attend her own son's funeral, we thought we could at least wait until she was well enough to attend the burial.

It never happened. She lived almost two years longer, and she was well enough to ride to Christmas dinner, and kick your butt at Chinese checkers, and plant peppers in the care center garden, but never well enough to sit outside for an hour at the military cemetery. We kept hoping, waiting, but it never happened.

Then Grandma passed away, and we had her funeral.
Then Rico got sick - really sick, and I didn't want to sit through the burial alone - quite frankly, I didn't want to sit at a burial with anyone. It was just too much.

By the time Rico was healing, it was winter, and it didn't seem right.

Then winter passed, but Punk was graduating and we didn't think dad would want to miss that - so we kept him around for the party.

But finally it was time. He'd always wanted a military burial, so we set up his final farewell at fort Snelling in Minneapolis.

I thought it would be easier.

I mean, it's not like he died again.

He'd been hanging out with us for nearly half a decade. He was just moving - and not even that far.

But it was rough.

Really rough.

First of all there's the way the veterans salute him. Then there is the 21 gun salute - 7 vets each shooting off three rounds. In this case it was 8 vets - don't ask me why, but leave it to my dad to get a bonus round out of life. Next came the trumpet playing TAPS. Then there was the flag presentation - which the girls accepted because that's what would have made their Pa happiest. Then there is the presentation of the bullets, followed by final salute and a parade of flag bearers walking away from him.

We could have been done there.
That could have been it.
Besides returning for visits and to make sure they got the stone just right, we could have called it a day.

But see, that's just not how I work.

When my dad died, it was me who put his remains in the urn. The guy at the crematorium tried to explain to me that it was something he usually did for people, but I explained to him that it was my job - not his.

I was the very last person to hug my dad. And given the option between me, and Dan at the urn shop, I'm think I made the choice my dad would have wanted.

When my grandma died after ten long days in hospice, the man from the morgue came to her room. He said he'd give me a few minutes then he would come in and take her. But I wouldn't let him do that either. I helped lift her onto the gurney, zip the black bag just up to her face and kissed her goodbye. Then I walked her to the hearse for her ride to Mayo, where she could donate her body to science - per her request.  Again - it's just a guess, but I'm thinking that my hands were the ones she wanted lifting her.

My brother and I delivered the eulogies at my both of their funerals. Because that is our job - to speak when they can't - to tell their grandchildren, their great-grandchildren about who they were, who they will always be.

So certainly you can see this coming . . .
It wasn't enough for me to just deliver my dad to the maintenance crew to be interned.
I had to do it myself.

Per usual, there was my direct request met with some stammering, shuffling through papers and finally an "I don't really know."

So I said what I always say, "It's my job."

And that's how we all ended up standing in front of open vault 14C, row 2,  section CC3.

Tiny placed one of our painted rocks next to him - it said, "You are not alone." I kissed my hand, and reached into the vault to make sure he got that one last kiss.

The internment manager took four silver screws and sealed the vault. He saluted the site and announced over his walkie talkie: "Serviceman Gary Rawn, site 14C has been interned."

And for the moment, my job was done.