Acceptance

Part 5, In Which It Goes Just Like the Movies

I had made flight arrangements to return to Chicago on Friday, the day after the viewing. The day after I booked the flight I saw in his obituary that the burial would be on Saturday. My first reaction was to feel crushed; I had wanted to be there until the very end. I was embarrassed that I subconsciously figured the viewing would be the last thing. I wish I had asked someone before I started making flight plans, but the only person I knew how to contact was his fiancée; I didn’t want to trouble her any more than absolutely necessary.

I immediately started asking myself why this last bit was so important to me. Finally I decided that maybe it’s because that’s what happens in all the movies. It’s cold and rainy, the headstones are all grand and ornate and beautiful, and one person stands all by himself and says something fancy. Ultimately I let the notion go. Kevin wouldn’t give me shit one way or another.

All week long I kept getting the same question: Are you going to be there Saturday? It was easy to say no at first. I had already made travel arrangements. I had to go back to work. I couldn’t bear the cost of the penalty for changing the flight. But every time I was asked my excuse felt thinner. Weaker. Less worthy. I had been given the resources and the permission. I could have made it happen if I wanted to.

Eventually I came to realize the question had been more than casual. Slowly I gleaned that I wasn’t simply being asked. I was being invited. Requested directly by his siblings and his parents. “Will you?” turned into “I hope you can,” and I started figuring out logistics. When I heard, “Let me know if we can help you,” I fell headlong into an inevitable force akin to gravity, and started contacting everyone who needed to know that I’d be gone for two more days.

I awoke Saturday morning to grey light pouring in through the windows of my guest bedroom. Someone knocked and told me we’d be trying to leave half an hour earlier than planned, which meant I had to haul ass to make it happen. I did, and made it to the car in a respectable amount of time.

Cave Hill cemetery in Louisville is goddamn gorgeous. Every grave is a unique monument bearing ornate and detailed sculptures. During the drive late season snow had turned to sleet before finally succumbing to a mild, yet persistent rain. A small tent had been erected over the site, under which perhaps half of us were able to crowd for the final ritual.

Only two people stood to speak, the second of which was his Kevin’s father. He read from a small, leather bound notebook in which he had handwritten his words. What he said is not for me to share, but I can say this: he looked up once during the reading and his eyes met mine. Given the sentence he had just ended, I knew that there was no more appropriate nor necessary place for me to have been standing than right where I was at that time.

I got to say my own piece later – but that’s for later.