Memorial Day

Memorial Day

I'm getting better at tying my shoes.

"Are you ready to leave yet, Jay?" my dad calls up the stairs.

"Two more minutes!" I shout back down.

With a final tug, my shoes are securely tied. I grab my jacket from where it hangs on the door and make a mental note to safety-pin it later. That done, I proceed downstairs. Dad's holding the memorial wreath I made for Granddad in one hand and the keys in the other.

"Let's go!" I grin.

He frowns but says nothing. I think he thinks I don't have the right attitude. He's wrong.
The drive to the cemetery, Our Lady of Good Hope is a short one, only ten minutes from our house, so we make sure to keep up the family resting spots on days other than Memorial Day. I tidied up Jordan's grave last time I was there too, Mandy has a lot on her mind right now and the rest of his family moved out of the area after he died.

"So," Dad breaks the silence at last. "How're your classes going?"

I shrug. "Okay. Nothing too challenging. They're making me retake chemistry."

"You doing all right with that?" he spares me a glance.

"Uh-huh," I reply, hoping to discourage further conversation.

Dad's being persistent today. "Look, Jay... I don't want to get on your case, but if you want to talk to me, about classes, or anything..."

"Relax, Dad," I smile at him. "I know I can talk to you."

"I just wish you did... before...everything," he finishes lamely.

I scowl. "I thought we were done talking about that?"

He clears his throat. "You know how your mother is about this kind of thing."

"Yeah, that's why I'm living with you." Awkwardly I roll down the window and stick my head out. The breeze feels good, and it's preferable to further conversation.

At last we arrive at the cemetery. I unfasten my safetybelt and push open the car door.

"Want me to get the wreath?" Dad asks.

"Nah, I've got it," I tell him, grabbing it from the floor of the car and shutting the car door behind me. We walk in silence to Granddad's grave.

J. E. O'Toole, b. February 3rd 1920, d. March 18th 2003. Loving husband and father. RIP Mom had wanted to put RIP written out properly in Latin. Dad said it cost too much money and he won that argument.

I bend down and touch the white stone marker. "Heya Granddad," I say quietly. "I brought you flowers." That said, I prop the wreath up against the marker to my liking. Dad takes out his rosary and I continue my salutations in my head. Sorry I wasn't here last year. But you know where I was. You were probably looking out for me. Well, enough of that for now. I know you probably already know all of this, what with your being in Heaven, but I may as well fill you in on the news you may have missed. My chem professor doesn't like me at all, and I have to say it's mutual. Every time he looks at me I can feel the contempt. But other than that, college is going pretty well. I have a few classes I really like and it's enough.

You know, today shouldn't be going as well as it is, but I'm waiting for something bad to happen- I don't know what, maybe I'll get nightmares again tonight. I don't talk to Dad about those, I don't want to bother him any more than I already do. I can tell, every time he looks at me he wonders where he went wrong. If you have any sway up there, would you drop a line to God about letting him know it's not his fault? Explosions happen. I'm happy to be alive. Yeah, it sucks that I still randomly get the phantom-itch thing where my arm was, but really it doesn't hurt any more. Yeah, it's a pain to re-learn the simple stuff, and I'm never going to be a championship archer, but I never really wanted to be one anyway. I can take notes one-handed, do everything I need to throughout the day one-handed, it just doesn't bother me like it bothers him. Weird, hm?

Anyway... I knew you pretty well, Granddad, but sometimes I still wonder if you would have reacted like Dad did. You know, the going through the roof bit. I'm sure you noticed that, all the way up there. But I'd like to think that you'd be proud of me, that you'd tell me I did the right thing. Nobody down here really did. They just kind of accepted it with frigid calm- except for Dad, of course. There was lots of talk of 'You're old enough to make up your own mind." And I just decided that I had to do something. I mean, you lived through an era of war. I've been lucky enough to know peace most of my life. I figured the best way of making sure my kids- if I ever have any- have peace for their future was to go out and do something. To gain something big like that, you have to be willing to risk your own life, right? Somehow, I think you'd understand. Somehow I think you knew I'd choose this path, all those years ago, when I was a little kid and you brought me up here on Veteran's Day to talk to your dead buddies. Dad thought it was morbid. Mom thought you were giving me all sorts of bad ideas. But I remembered that. And I don't think they were bad ideas...

I'm probably keeping you from a heavenly game of whist, so I think I'd better go talk to Jordan now. You don't mind, right?

I straighten the wreath one last time and glance over at Dad. I'm reluctant to interrupt his prayers, but I figure he'll want to know where I'm going.

"Hey, Dad? I'm gonna go say hi to Jordan, all right?"

A nod, no more.

It doesn't take me long to find Jordan's grave- it's near a pretty good landmark, a nice shady tree of some variety by a stone bench. It's off in the right hand corner of the cemetery. I see I won't have privacy or silence for my meeting with Jordan-- a family of five, two parents and three small children-- have come to pay their respects to a grave nearby.

Jordan P. Marlow, b.4/11/1980 d.6/5/2005. "Asleep in Christ".

"Hey, man," I begin aloud, having the sudden, sinking feeling that talking to him won't be as easy as talking to Granddad was. "Sorry I didn't bring you a wreath."

Mandy's probably going to bring one by later- and if she doesn't, I will. Erm. I'm sure you haven't been doing anything but watch her since you died. So you'll know I've been staying in touch with her. She needs someone to help her through this and I'm glad she'll let me be the one to help her. The day I got back home I went over to see her. I ended up staying the night. We had a good cry and ate lots of chocolate. She said it was good for the baby. She still isn't involved with anyone, you know. You were right every time you said she was one of a kind. You two were so right for each other. This isn't to say I haven't been trying gently to remind her that there are other guys out there, but right now she'd dismiss out of hand any guy no matter how amazing as a knee-jerk reaction on her part. A sort of desperate need for Peach to have a daddy.
We call him Peach, you know. Because he had peach fuzz for such a long time. He's such a cutie. He's not all you, he's a good mix of the two of you. I'm glad you two decided on Peter Gabriel Jordan Marlow before he was born, it was one less thing Mandy had to sound off of me. But Peach is going to need a daddy some day. Mandy just can't raise him on her own. Not that I'd let her, but as much as Aunt Jay is perpetually the babysitter-on-call, he's going to need a daddy to teach him some things. And whoever he ends up being, he won't be as amazing as you would have been. I wish you could have seen him, even once. Ultrasound doesn't count. But I guess you can see him now-- though I don't think it can be the same, seeing him from Heaven. So my mission to look after Mandy goes on. And one day that'll include seeing that she finds the right guy. But not any time soon. She isn't ready. God, she misses you. I miss you too. So you look out for the three of us, all right? Mandy, me and Peach. And if there's a guy that you approve of, that you'd want Mandy to be with, point him out to me, all right? Take care. I know you don't need it, but I'll be praying for you.

I notice now that Dad has been waving at me for a while. I wave an acknowledgement back and start walking towards him. The kids who were nearby have spread out a bit in a game of tag, I think. One, a little girl in a pink gingham dress tugs at her mother's trouserlegs.

"Mama, that girl's only got one arm," she informs her.

"Lindsey!" her mother glares at her and glances in my direction. "I'm sorry," she says quietly.

"Sharp kid," I grin at Lindsey. Not everyone notices that sort of thing when I'm wearing my jacket. "I'm gonna get a replacement someday," I inform Lindsey, bending down to her level. "Maybe I should get a hook- then I'd look like a pirate, right?"

"Are there lady-pirates?" Lindsey asks.

I nod seriously. "Yep."

"I wanna be a pirate too!" Lindsey decides.

I laugh. "Until we meet again on the high seas!" I wave goodbye and head back to where Dad stands by our car.

"Made a new friend?" Dad asks.

"Pirate wannabe."

He gives me a blank look.

"It's not important, Dad," I assure him. "Well, let's get home."

*~*~*