My Son's Hero
I pour myself a cup of coffee and open the front door to grab the
newspaper. The autumn morning cold and
damp, a perfect day for a funeral. Four
days after the death of my father and the story is still on the front
page. It doesn't need to be, there are
plenty of other things going on in the world.
My family is trying to keep things small.
The funeral service this morning is for family and close friends
only. There will be a bigger memorial
service next week. Some people thought
Dad should be buried in Arlington. But that was against his wishes. He'll be buried in the family plot next to
his parents.
I hear the shower turn off and a few minutes later my son pads down the
hallway. While this is a hard day for
all of us, it will be especially hard on him.
He's managed to make it to the age of 12 without being hit with the
death of someone close to him.
Unfortunately his first real experience is the death of his beloved
grandfather. The viewing was rough. It took him almost an hour to actually step
into the room with the casket. He
eventually came up to the casket with my sister and I, wedging himself in
between us, holding our hands. Before
backing away he placed one of his school pictures and a note he'd written in
the casket. Quiet for the rest of the
day, he distanced himself from the rest of family spending time in his room
looking at old family pictures.
My coffee's done and I need to get myself ready. I wearily climb the stairs and check on my
son's progress. The door is open and I
hang in the doorway for a few minutes before he notices me. He's standing in front of the mirror trying
to get his tie straight. The private
school he goes to has a dress code which includes ties for the boys starting in
the 7th grade. Over the summer he and my
father spent a considerable amount of time together as my dad taught him to tie
a perfect knot. I was grateful for that,
as my tie tying skills are almost non-existent and my ex-husband ran out on us
before he could pass on the skill to our son.
A couple more tries and the tie is in a more than passable knot.
"Looks good."
"Grandpa taught me," he whispers as he puts on his belt. He pulls on his suit jacket and puts a few
pieces of notebook paper into his pocket.
My 12 year old has taken on the responsibility of giving a eulogy at the
funeral, something I couldn't bring myself to do. I can tell my the look in his eyes that he is
having second thoughts about getting up in front of everyone.
"Honey, you don't have to do this," I remind him as I move to
stand behind him. I put my hands on his
shoulders and we look at our reflections in the mirror. He grew about 2 inches over the summer but
with my heels on he still just comes up to my shoulder. I kiss the top of his head, inhaling the
fresh clean smell of his shampoo. I take
one last look at him.
I never really noticed how much he looks like my dad. They share the same brown hair that when the
sun hits it just right, turns reddish.
They share the same name. They
smile the same and are built the same.
They share a love of books and the city of Washington
DC. Every spring my dad would take him
to DC. The two of them would spend a few
days roaming the city, visiting old haunts, seeing friends on the Hill. My son lived for those trips and I glad they
had the time together. It still amazes
me that my son was able to have this time with his grandfather. Frankly, my Dad wasn't expected to live this
long so every year they had together was special. They had a bond that couldn't be broken. Dad was my son's hero.
"We talked about him at school, the day after he died," my son
says as he digs in the closet for his shoes.
"Did you know there are a couple of pages about him in my Social
Studies book? About how the Constitution works. Kids asked me about when he was
President. I had to keep reminding them
that I wasn't born yet. My teacher kept
asking if I wanted to leave the room. She
thought I would get too upset talking about him. But it was kind of cool. Can I take some of these pictures in when I
go back to school next week."
"Sure."
"Did Grandpa like being President?"
"I think he liked the idea of being President. But it was a very rough time for the country
when he was in office. It was hard on
him."
"Will the President be there today?"
"No, he'll be at the service next week."
"Can I practice one more time?" he asks as he fishes the wrinkled
papers out of his pocket.
I glance at my watch, "We'll have to do it in the car, we're running
late."
"OK," he mutters as he stops to glance at a picture of himself
and his Grandfather that holds a place of honor on his nightstand. He struggles between holding back his tears
and letting his emotions show, comes with the territory when you're a 12 year old
boy, I suppose. As soon as I touch his
shoulder he tosses the picture on the bed and falls into my arms, sobbing. I rock him gently, keeping one eye on the
clock. When his tears slow I send him
into the bathroom to wash his face and grab some more tissues.
**********************
There's not a dry eye in the church by the time my son finishes his
eulogy. He did it, I don't know how, but
he did it. He tucks the papers back into
his pocket and comes to sit back down with me.
"Would he be proud of me?" he whispers as he reaches for my hand.
"Yes, Glenallen, he'd be very proud of you," I whisper as I put
my arm around his shoulders and kiss the top of his head.
THE END
