The Playdate

This afternoon I had a play date with one of my very favorite pals.  My brother.

Ben and I, Christmas morning, 1982

For the 11 days since Ben passed away I have strictly avoided thoughts of the cemetery and his burial plot.  I couldn't think about it, see pictures of it or discuss it.  To admit he had a resting place would mean that it was too real.  More real than I could handle at this point.

And then, today, I realized that it was time to go.

Time to go back to that place where one week ago the only sound was a lone bagpipe playing Amazing Grace.  To the place where one week ago I was surrounded by loved ones, yet felt totally alone.  Where one week ago I watched in quiet reflection as eight of the men in Ben's life lined the muddy path in respectful silence while eight more carried his casket to it's final resting place.

One week doesn't sound like a very long time when I type it out like this.  But I can tell you that this week has been slow as I've tried to ready myself to start down the path to healing and allowing myself to grieve.

And I knew that today was the day for me to start on that path.

And my first feeble footsteps needed to be on the ground where my brother's body rests.

The place that scared me the most.

The Hubs and I loaded up the kids and made the short drive from our home.  The kids were chattering away in the back, having no idea of the stinging in my eyes and the pounding in my heart.

The sky was sunny and there were people walking up and down the streets, out for a Sunday stroll, their lives whizzing past while mine has felt stuck lately.

When we pulled into the cemetery the kids finally quieted down.  The Hubs pulled up to the curb and we sat there for minute.  Then I asked if anyone wanted to get out with me and walk over to Ben's grave.  They all surprised me by saying yes.

The ground was muddy, a remnant of the many footprints from loved ones who made the snowy trek with us last week.

There was a fresh mound of dirt and some flowers on top.

It was quiet.

And then the coolest thing happened as I sat there and stared at the ground.  It began to snow.  Light, fluffy flakes.  Weightless.  Almost too light to even touch down, they danced through the air.  And pretty soon thousands of them joined in the dance.  They stuck to our hair and our coats, but they were so light that their touch couldn't be felt.  Soon we were totally surrounded, sight blurred, yet somehow remaining dry and warm.

"What's happening?" one of the kids giggled as we looked into the sky.  The blue, blue sky with strange dancing flakes coming out of it.

"Uncle Ben is saying hello," I smiled.

And suddenly I felt him there.  Laughing and dancing and smiling with those snowflakes as he said hello.

Tears began to stream down my face and I knew.  He was telling me that he is at peace.  That I will be okay and that he is watching over us.

I looked at Steve and we silently began walking back to the car, somehow with a new rhythm to my step.  Rather than feeble, shaking knees, I walked away knowing that I've left my brother in good hands.  My role as his protector has been handed to another.  One who will do a better job than me.

I can let him go.

I can let him be free.

And even though I will mourn his loss for the rest of my mortal life, I will do so with the knowledge that he is okay.  Even though I will miss him, and cry sometimes, and have to adjust to a new normal, he is smiling down on me, hugging me with snowflakes and wanting me to be happy.

After all those times that I did my best to make him smile, to ease his suffering and to be his friend, it was his turn to give me some comfort.

It was the best play date ever.