Saturday dawned, cool and bright. The leaves left on the trees were still brilliant yellows and golds and russets, adding a warm backdrop to the early November day. Some of us met at HQ and walked to the cemetery, a short, familiar walk about a quarter of a mile from the house. It was a gorgeous afternoon for a walk. We felt anxious, but took comfort in each other, as we tried to hold back the reality of what was to be the final leg of life’s journey for our parents.

The rest were already at the gravesite, quietly standing around, waiting. When I saw the flag, neatly folded atop the Kelly green marble urn with their names engraved on it, my breath caught in my throat and I felt my heart drop. I felt a physical pain as the scab of my grief was ripped off the wound I’d been trying to ignore for the past seven months.

A bronze plaque, set in the ground next to the family headstone, told the tale of my father’s service in World War II. I looked again at the urn, taking in the beauty of the marble, the perfectly engraved names with date of birth and date of death, and I felt the earth beneath my feet seem to give way. The tears streamed down my face as the reality of their deaths hit me, a physical blow to my stomach. All of the pain from the day my Da passed, through my mother’s failing health to her passing, kept at bay as the months went by, came crashing down around me. I looked around at my siblings, my husband, my son and his girlfriend , my in-laws and some of my nieces and nephews,  and saw the same raw emotion wrack their souls.

Our parents are gone. This is their final resting place. A life together, more than 70 years in the making, is over. A life that knew its share of happiness and grief, joy and tough times, yet still shared a deep and abiding love with whomever they met, is over.  We were so blessed. So blessed. They were not perfect. Nobody is. But the gift of their love to me and my brothers and sisters is as close to perfect as it can be. It is what will help us to eventually heal, and keep us tied together as we each grieve for the loss.

The priest gave his homily. A contingent from the Navy approached the gravesite, took the flag and unfurled it, catching the spirit of my Da in the honor of his service. They folded it back again, with reverence and respect. One of the sailors approached my oldest brother and placed the flag in his arms, thanking him and us for the service and sacrifices my father made for the sake of the country he so loved. Across the cemetery, another sailor let the crystal clear notes of her horn sing Taps, filling the fall air with a sound that would have made my mother cry. I have never heard Taps played with such emotion.

And so the service ended. I looked around again, and saw the eight of us; not as grown-ups. Not as parents with our own families. Not aging as we all have. I saw eight vulnerable, sad, orphaned little kids. Just looking for our parents. Wishing and wondering when they were coming home.

Ma Mere used to say, “Don’t say good-by. Say  so long.”

So I say, So long my Da. So long Ma Mere. Until we meet again.