I'd never watched a graveside service with full military honors for a veteran before. When Gran died, two months after the War on Terror began (October 2001), no military personnel were available to give him a salute or play Taps for him. This time was really, really cool, and poignant. Dad would have liked it.
Two Air Force servicemen were there to meet Dad's casket at the little shelter in the cemetery; they performed the flag folding ceremony and handed the flag to Neenaw (something we five children agreed she would like).
After the cemetery spokesman said a few words, he invited us to speak, but we were all too overwhelmed, I think - and had had the opportunity to share memories and thoughts at Dad's funeral two days before. So we were all perfectly silent as we looked at that beautiful casket one more time and bid Dad "see you later."
Dad was buried in the same national cemetery that his father, maternal grandparents, and grandaunt Rozila and granduncle Kenneth were buried. We actually watched as the cemetery personnel lowered his casket into the ground. I felt oddly peaceful, like, yep. This is what you do with a loved one's body after he leaves it behind. It was the last thing we could do for him, and it felt right to do it.
Afterward we walked a little ways up to Gran's grave. From his resting place, we're able to look just down the hill, and there's Dad's spot. "Just like in Brookings," Uncle John and Ernie both noted, alluding to the time during my childhood when we all lived on the same property together.
Then, we all went out to Sweet Tomatoes in Portland and enjoyed lots of great healthy-ish food, and bid each other safe travels. It was a hard, but very good day.
Till we meet again, Dad.
