The Tonic Chord; for Richard

It was the final salute, a last show of respect from the heart of a Sailor to the body of a fallen Marine that guided Richard to the airport in his dress blues on May 3, 2004. What a miserable day for suits that was. And a Monday, no less. Monday to Monday.

One of the few things I took comfort in that day was that from the time Aaron had left this earth, from the time I first heard that the someone’s son who willingly laid down his life, the life that was his and mine and so many others; from the horrible three seconds my heart stopped, not his, what, fifteen hours after the fact? But one of the things I took comfort in was the number of days since deadly labor had begun. The number, a symbolic seven. Completion.

Quick, too quick no doubt, for such news from Marines with such a message.

And exactly seven days later I buried him.

It was complete.

So many finals. Final this, final that. Names engraved here and there. And it is all so beautiful and touching. And that is it. It’s fast, and snap, snap. And, and, and….

Final.

But Final final does not exist in the hearts of good men. I am blessed among women in the way I buried my son. It is a son that is buried. The son will be missed as a hero. And for me, would be missed just as much had the tragedy been a drug overdose, a car accident, any unlinking of everything for a time.

Sensory deprivation.

That’s what is missed: the babies we raised, the teenagers who charmed us, then snap, were initiated into the hood of man. We stood by, merely glimpsed a former youngster, a splendid creation birthed from our bodies. And suddenly, always suddenly, no matter the time, they are no more.

The mothers whose shoulders were built for such a parting are not honored by an entire nation. Seems a little unfair, really. Later, down the road.

Those who came to my aide, stood at my side, stunned me then. Their goodness astonishes me still.

Admittedly, there is a great deal during that time, which is forever lost to me, but there are images and conversations that will die only with dementia or death.

Since Aaron’s funeral was in Amarillo, four hours from here, most of the family came the night before. Greg, Tiff, and I left a couple of days earlier since I was to ride with Doug and Eric to meet Aaron’s body in Oklahoma City.

I’ll never forget the hotel we stayed at. Tiff’s parents reserved rooms at the Four Seasons or Fifth Season, something season, which is not important except to say that in its day, it lived up to one of those images, but May of 2004 was well past the crucial color of any four or imaginary fifth fluctuation of any bit of month of the year.

Rick and Cindy reserved these rooms while they were still at home in Scottsdale, so of course they ddidn't realize how this one time paradise of a place had been well seasoned and for all intense purposes, tossed out to sea.

The sympathetic clerk, owner or owner’s wife no doubt, told them via the long distance call that we could get these special rooms for only $39.99 during these distinctive days of death's duty. She said,or he said, just tell them we were with the Austin family.

We all thought, how nice, and alerted the entourage. We all called the hotel and mentioned the code phrase in a quiet and covert fashion, but the secret was out when hours later, we drove up, or when we were about a mile away really, and saw a sign: $39.99 EVERY NIGHT. Its pomp and flash shamed New York City on New Year’s Eve at its shiniest. And of course, we, Greg and I being smokers, got the worst room in the place.

Rich didn’t miss much by flying from Dallas to Amarillo the morning of the funeral, then back out before the graveside service began. A service in the architecture and tradition of man. A tradition that I hold high in a mother's heart, because these traditions were founded by men with a Richard heart.

A young busy executive, a stand in or newly appointed president of the company (if memory serves me justly), flew from Dallas to Amarillo to pay his respects to me, to my son and my family, even though he hadn’t talked to Aaron for nearly a decade.

I don’t remember Rich’s exact arrival. I believe I was in the viewing room or whatever dressed up thing funeral homes name such bizarre rooms of great cush and comfort. A spotlight in the stage set for waxed bodies and their survivors.

The room did comfort me. I didn't want to leave. It wasn't the overstuffed chairs and great divans of antiquity, not the flaked gold of frames that squared and rectangled a perfect pastoral scene. Not the dimmed lights that glistened and glowed upon the body of a Marine and the portraits of how the Marine really looked a few months prior. These were our own geometric shapes that hinted personality of the missing to the unknowing, but all of us in this final room knew.

Unrushed and handsome, tenderly eager, Richard attended me there in that room. He told me what Aaron’s ribbons represented. Even that, I’ve since forgotten, though their significance is duly noted, recorded, tucked away.

There are times in our lives that the brain snaps a forever photograph.

As everyone filed out before us, as the ushers or flower gatherers or whatever their directors call them are, gathered flowers, dispensed directions and quick, quick, snap, snap. Snapped duties and biddings, after all, the next funeral is at two, for heaven’s sake, take this, not that, okay, these go first, oh for the love of new ushers or flower gatherers, I’m the Director, but no one can do it without me, I must do everything.

A scene I never heard, but felt.

My mind’s film argued with the rush. We have to leave?

But yes, everyone’s leaving and talking and directing....

But Greg, I’m sure he must’ve been behind me.

He always was.

And Karen, in front of me some, I think.

Her eyes. Yes, Karen was there. And Richard.

Richard walked part way with us. Stopped.

Snap.

I could hear the voice, orders from somewhere, another time, a different place, something different.

No. Somebody different.

About--
Face!

Snap.

Order--
Arms!

The broken chords
drift …

The triad begins. A tonic chord it is built upon too.

Steady. Slow before the eyes of eternity, the naval officer’s hand ascends near his temple and waits there.

Waits.

Before beginning its
slow descent and
steady cadence as

his right hand
lowers and finds
its end. Presses

itself firmly against
the side nearest
a sailor's heart.