Somber reunion

With fear and trembling (literally), Damien and I pay our respects to the family. Why is this so difficult? Because we may say or do something to offend these hurting people? Because we are afraid we may not know how to speak or act? Because by immersing ourselves in their grief, we are acknowledging our common mortality and the fact that this pain could easily be our own?

On the porch stand two men--Marc's step-father and a neighbor from the other side. My relationship with them in the past consisted of friendly hellos and shared social events. However, today we sob together and hold each other tightly. All we can say is, "Oh, my God!" over and over. Their sorrow pours out, drenching me in it. How can this be happening? Inside the house, Mary's pain is too deep to reach. She is just going through the motions-- hugging, visiting with the crowd, talking, and then suddenly running away to the refuge of her room to get away. In the kitchen, people stand around talking softly, smiling hesitantly at those they haven't seen in awhile. I remember the loud laughter and fun of this house 18 years ago when we lived next door. Laughter that was still heard just a few days ago, I'm sure.

Marc's siblings have come from other states. Beautiful kids, all grown-up. The whole neighborhood is here, it seems. The twins from down the hill who confront Damien on how he used to harass them. Other kids who used to play street hockey in the driveway or capture the flag on the grassy hills around our yards. I see the snooty past president of the PTA. She's still snooty, but old. Maybe she looks at me and thinks I'm old too. We hug though, and it is good to be here and see these people-- even her.

Several days later we go to the funeral home for Marc's viewing on a cold, blustery night. A long line of people has formed around the building. There are so many people here that they can't fit inside. Old veterans stand motionless out front in this frigid air, holding tightly to big flags that snap in the wind. We wait over an hour just to get in the building. At first the mood is reverent and still as we wait. As the minutes go by and the wind picks up to seemingly gale force, we recall stories of the former days in the old neighborhood and shiver and laugh. But we sober up right away once we get inside. Pictures of Marc surround us. His mementos from school and sports, his awards. He was a Green Beret. The tears flow again. We reach the casket. No, it isn't Marc. Doesn't look a bit like him. He was full of life, mischievous, always smiling. I can't look anymore at this stranger.

Mary. Oh, Mary. She's exhausted, drained. Greeting people for hours, standing here near the body of her son. What a strange custom we have that a family must endure. Mary and I exchange a few words--what we wouldn't give to have our children little again, to go back to those carefree days, ignorant of this impending tragedy. As we leave we run into more people, old friends, classmates of my boys. A grand reunion here in this funeral home. A young woman beside me in line graduated with Jon. She says, "What fun it would have been to catch up with everyone at a different time and place. A wedding maybe." Marc's wedding that will never be.