A Memorial

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A SHORT STORY

This past weekend we held a memorial for my Dad.

Having spent the past months running from responsibility to responsibility, I was taken aback by how much I needed to slow down.

As I headed into the weekend, I kept wondering to myself—how does one memorialize another? What is the aim, and how do we hold space for it?

This question rattled around in my mind as we approached his burial. We had arranged for the Air Force to perform the proper burial rites, and it was there I finally felt able to slow down.

My Dad and his father were both members of the Air Force, and it felt important to honor his service as part of the memorial.

During the Air Force burial ritual, a properly proportioned flag is folded 13 times into triangles, representing the 13 original colonies. The folded flag is emblematic of the tricorn hat worn by the patriots of the American Revolution. When folded, no red or white stripe is to be visible—only the blue field with stars.

They approached this with excellence—every single detail, slow and methodical. Then the soldier stepped forward to my Dad’s wife and spoke to her directly, almost as if the entire Air Force stood behind him:

“On behalf of the president of the United States, and the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service.”

Tears filled my eyes to witness such service and precision. As the soldier played Taps on the bugle, my heart slowed. I paused.

I felt a small sense of closure for my Dad.

Not because something was finished, but because something had been fully witnessed.

What rituals help you slow down? How can you practice that today?

A POEM

“The God Abandons Antony” by C.P. Cavafy

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who proved worthy of this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final pleasure—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

Grateful,

Michael