The Nature of Fireworks

The old adage that all good things must come to an end dates back, I read somewhere, to Chaucer in the 14th century. I’m not so special for breathing some form of this statement on a regular basis in a tone of cynical resignation. For every joyful hello there is an equally disproportionate and tearful good-bye, quelling that initial joy and replacing it with something like ache.

I first wrote here about Robb leaving back in 2006 when he left for boot camp. I wrote about it again when he left for Iraq. And then when he had to leave for Iraq a second time, well, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I never get used to his leaving. I don’t like it. I refuse to like it. 

Good-byes are on my mind today because I’ve lived another one, and while I was standing at the airport watching my son arc away from me, into a whiter than white sky, I thought about how many more there are to go, not just his, but each child's. So much leaving already lived, yet so much more to endure.

Robb’s leavings have become a familiar, if unwelcome, routine. The day dawns under a pall. The whole family speaks in hushed tones. We keep looking at the clock. No one wants to eat.

With his digi-cam ruck sack stuffed and flung over his shoulder, Robb entered the kitchen shortly after nine a.m. and gave me a “Let’s go,” flick of his head. All of us filed to the driveway where Joe produced a Roman candle. I don’t know how long he’d saved it, but he decided today was the day to light it, in the middle of a moderate snow storm no less. Robb set his cigarette to the fuse, and we took a step back. After an abbreviated moment, sizzling flares of color arced from the stick. Each one reached a little higher than the last and soon they were firing over the bare trees, high above the house, first blue, then red, then another blue, before disappearing into the white backdrop of the world. When no more fired, Joe said, “That’s it?”

I said, “Yeah, but it was cool while it lasted."

Ted, who wasn't going with us to the airport, wrapped his arms around Robb. They said things to one another that I could not hear, and when they released their hug the rest of us got into the car.

***
It was important that he stop by the nursing home to say goodbye to Marnie before leaving town. When I pulled into the parking lot, a half-block from our house, we spotted her sitting in her wheelchair waiting for us to arrive. Robb walked through the door and greeted her. “I saw the fireworks!" she said. "I knew that had to be you kids!”

“That makes me almost want to cry,” Joe said.

“Not almost,” added Jake.

Robb and Marnie hugged, and then hugged again. Neither wanted to let go.

When he was buckled back in, I pointed the car toward the airport, but Robb said, “Can we make one more stop?”

“Where?” I asked.

“A place out by Farm King.”

The cemetery. My stomach knotted. He hadn’t brought this up before. Yes, it was necessary, but, damn, it was going to hurt.

Jake started crying before we got there. The car was silent, slipping on ice, trudging through slush. I parked near Bill’s grave. Joe and Robb got out but Jacob simply couldn’t, so I stayed with him inside the car, holding his trembling hand, watching as my two oldest sons with bodies like men and hearts like boys, walked to their father’s grave. Robb bent over, using his bare hand to wipe the snow from Bill’s name, as tender as if it had been his face. Then the two boys stood with their backs to us, shoulder to shoulder, speaking or wordless, I don’t know. After several minutes, they turned and walked back toward the car, hands shoved in pockets, necks bent to shield their faces from the falling snow.

“He needs a better headstone,” Robb said.

The car fell silent as each boy stared out the window, lost in his own thoughts.

“I just wanted to say goodbye,” he added, answering a question no one had asked.

I thought about the Roman candle, its small but intense light shooting into the sky just high enough into the whiter than white morning that the people to see it were the only ones who really needed to.

Comments

[Mary-LUE]

Oh my. Tears again. It is so sad, reading about the loss of Bill, the continuing grief. Somehow, and I think this echoes another comment I wrote to one of these posts, they are so beautiful, too. The love that was, and is, shared.

Thank you for sharing with us.

[Wendy Pitcher]

Cyn,
I read all your blogs and sat here and cried. So many wonderful memories of Bill and the kids came flooding back. As much as I grieve for him, I can't imagine what you and the kids must be going through. He was a wonderful part of my life and I will never forget him.
Thank you for sharing your memories.
Wendy

[kimbyrlee]

cyn...it is impossible for me to wrap my mind around what you and the kids have gone through. it seems like it really is one day at a time. people over use that phrase, you know. thanks for sharing those intimate moments and memories with us. love you.