We buried Al in the family plot in Athens yesterday.
It’s a lovely space grown up with massive ancient oaks, and graves that tell the story of a family and a country.
A military honor guard of four uniformed Marines was present. Folding and presentation of the U.S. flag to the next- of-kin was precise, restrained, respectful, and tender. The black Marine who presented the flag to Betty was a woman—I only realized it when she turned to approach Betty, who murmured “You are beautiful.”
“Taps” rang out, played by a nephew. Al would have appreciated that.
Aaron delivered the eulogy. For those few minutes, the extroverted larger-than-life exuberance of the family was contained and held tenderly by the new “patriarch.” Aaron was devoted to his brother.
My brother Richard showed up—a welcome surprise. And he and I observed that yesterday would have been our father’s 105th birthday.
Al’s life has ended. But a nephew played “Taps.” Aaron spoke. Betty received the flag. I stood beneath the oaks with my brother and we remembered our father.
The story kept going.
And perhaps that is one of the things funerals are for: not only to mark a death, but to reveal, briefly, the shape of what remains.
