The Young Dead Soldiers

The first of the services for my dad was today...and though of course it was miserable, I'm still truckin' like I do. The reason there are two is that today was the Marines' official honoration and interrment, which they only do during the week. The service where the rest of the family can speak and share pictures and other things is tomorrow.

We drove an hour north to the state's burial grounds for servicemen and -women. It was pouring rain the entire way, so the service part of things was held indoors in their chapel. All of our close relatives were there, including my mom's side of the family. Except, of course, for my two nieces. I can't let myself hold it against them, because the older one had to work and the younger one was watching my sister's dog...but sometimes they make me wonder.

Two Marines marched in to begin the service, delivering a folded flag and the urn with Dad's ashes in it, then marched out again. A neighbor of my mom's who was in the service for fifty years did all the talking, since none of us were up to doing any, and read a poem.

The Young Dead Soldiers

Archibald MacLeish

The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night
and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died.
Remember us.
They say: We have done what we could
but until it is finished it is not done.
They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished
no one can know what our lives gave.
They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,
they will mean what you make them.
They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.

Then the Marines marched in again and unfolded the flag. They played Taps from somewhere in the back of the chapel, and just as it began, the rain disappeared and the sun came out. Then they folded up the flag, saluted it, and presented it to mom.

I have never before seriously considered going into the services. It's something that crosses everyone's mind at some point, I think, because we all know at least a few people who serve or have served. As well as my father being a Marine, I have two friends who are currently in the army, and Wren's new boyfriend is on active duty in the Navy.

I'm not cut out for the services; I know that. I'm not going to go enlist. But for just a few minutes, while our neighbor was speaking about his time in service, I really understood what it is that drives those who do enlist. Dad said many times in his life that it was the best thing he ever did and that he believed everyone should have mandatory service. He countered that only once by saying it was the worst mistake he ever made. He never pushed me to go into service, but I knew he would be proud of me if I did. It would be the highest honor I could possibly give Dad if I were to become a Marine.

But it's not for me.

After waiting a few minutes for the groundskeeper to put Dad's urn in its place, we all walked out to see it. By that time the rain was already starting to dry up, and the sun was hot. We stood around for a while and talked and cried, and then eventually wandered off to make the drive back down to town.

Most of us met up again at the restaurant where my oldest sister bartends on the weekends, and we sat for three hours and drank and ate and were really awesomely roudy. The napkin war would have gotten us kicked out of almost any other place.

Interestingly, as we were about to leave the burial grounds, the aforementioned aunt Renee came up to ask me how I was doing, and it was with genuine feeling. It's rare to see any emotion out of her at all aside from harsh sarcasm and bitterness, but she was sympathetic in a way that you just can't fake.

"I thought I was young when my father died," she said. "But not as young as you."

"How old were you?" I asked.

"Thirty-three."

As terrible a process as grieving is, and as much as I would never wish it on anybody, it does have some positive effects sometimes on those who are left here.