Oh, Beautiful for Spacious Skies

We like to think the people we love are made of steel. That they are stronger than anything that can take them from us. Strong like the tool used to carve letters into granite, “In Loving Memory.” Strong like the brass trumpet that plays slowly the twenty-four notes in Taps when a soldier is laid to rest. Strong like the heartbeat in our chest we cover with our hand during the twenty-one gun salute.

He was equal parts steel and grace. Steel like the Brooklyn Bridge in the city he grew up in, which is why when I visit part of me feels like I’m going home. Steel like a naval ship or the strings on his guitar. Graceful like the swan dives he used to do at the public pool. Graceful like his rower’s stroke down the Hudson. Or the way he used to read poetry during morning devotional at family reunions.

I feel him in the majesty of purple mountains and when we sing, “Oh beautiful for spacious skies.” When I sit across the table from my uncle who visits from Boston. Time has etched the lines on his face to look just like Grandpa’s. Or in moments like last Tuesday when I put my card in the machine to vote.

Maybe I’ve been waiting for strength. Or for the mound of dirt to go down. For grass to grow over the spot like a scar where they opened up the earth and put him in. With little daylight left, I drove up the hill. It took me a few minutes to find the marker. Brushing away a few dead leaves, I felt the letters with my hand. I bent down and stuck a small American flag in the soggy autumn ground.