When you reach my age, you've walked a lot of dark paths. Among the darkest is the death of a loved one.
I was 29 when I got the call that Dad was gone. I then found myself onboard a plane with Andrea on a flight to New Orleans. Riding in an aluminum tube for 3 hours with nothing to do but sit with my thoughts was not pleasant. I didn't say a single word to Andrea, but I held her hand the whole time - squeezing harder every now and then in an attempt to fight back tears. I tried to force my mind to wander, to dwell on anything else but the obvious.
Nearby, a group of ladies was talking excitedly about their girls-only trip to Avery Island, Louisiana. I tried to listen in on details, hoping for any distraction. But it was too hard a juxtaposition - their giddiness and expectation of a good time and happy memories was the absolute antithesis of the somber task waiting for me.
When we got to Long Beach, I plunged myself into making arrangements. Mom was obviously a wreck, and I wanted to spare her as much as possible. Besides, if I kept busy enough, I wouldn't be able to slow down and think, and my mind wouldn't be able to focus on who I'd lost.
An unholy horde of decisions had to be made in fairly short order.
What Dad would wear was an easy one. I wanted him buried in his Navy dress blues. That kicked off a frantic and unusual scavenger hunt for his citations. I'd need them to assemble the ribbons he'd been awarded onto his uniform. Over the intervening decades since his service, he'd also lost track of his cover, the hat portion of his uniform, so he was buried with mine.
At the funeral home, Mom asked me to select Dad's casket. Throughout this entire ordeal, Andrea was always at my side. She was with me now, as the funeral director opened a set of double doors revealing an entire display room of caskets and coffins. I could feel the despair rising in me. I'm supposed to choose!? From all this? By what bloody criteria do I make that decision!?
I held her hand tighter as we stepped into the room. The selection was grossly and unnecessarily large, but as I walked among the grim inventory, I kept gravitating towards one. An unadorned, ocean blue, steel casket with chrome handles. What would Dad think? Was it too flashy and ostentatious? Andrea seemed to sense my struggle and squeezed my hand, "I think your Dad would like it. It just looks like him." Decision made. I let out a slow sigh and called the director over.
Mom asked if I wanted to deliver the eulogy. I unhesitatingly said yes. But the day of the ceremony was approaching and I just couldn't formulate my thoughts. How does a son summarize his father's life? It's an incredibly weighty task that I wouldn't wish on anyone. The only thing I remember about the address was just a snippet that pertained to our relationship: "In the 29 years I knew him, Dad never, ever broke a promise to me."
The graveside service was held at Biloxi National Cemetery, and Dad received full military honors. A rifle squad rendered a gun salute and Mom was presented with the flag that draped his casket. After the ceremony, everyone eventually slipped away until I was the last one present. It was now just the two of us. Father and son.
The swirl of emotions I felt was like being adrift on a stormy ocean, and the sense of loss was crushing. My mind gravitated towards things we'd never do again - work on the Mustang, barbecue out in the backyard, or pack out the van for a cross country trip.
Then came the guilt. Had I done enough? What did we say the last time we spoke? I remembered all the things I wanted to do for him but never followed through. All the times he asked me to go fishing with him and I declined...All those times I'd screwed up or fallen short...All the things that went unsaid...Was he disappointed? Did I make him proud?
ENOUGH!
I let out a slow breath and noticed my hands hurt. My knuckles were white from my fists being so tightly clenched. As I slowly opened them, I reminded myself of who I was. My name is Gregory Wayne C. Capuyan. He was Gregory B. Capuyan. I was his son. He was my dad. And we're good. For the first time in days, I smiled.
I got to my feet and snapped to attention. Still smiling, I rendered my last military salute. Then, approaching his casket, I placed my right hand on the cold steel. "I guess this is goodbye, Dad. Don't worry, I'll stop by as often as I can." With that, I was once more at attention. I executed a brisk about-face and strode purposely out of the pavilion and into the sun.
A young lady who has become special to both Andrea and me suffered the loss of a very close friend recently. I wish we could meet face to face. I'd tell her the story I just told you and hope she could find solace in the fact that I have an inkling of what she's going through.
A more eloquent man than me once said, "Remember all that is good, all that is true, and all that is beautiful about those we have lost."
Treasure the memories. Jettison the guilt.
Rock-tober out.
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