for Popo…I’m not sure 98 years was enough

In March, I left the South’s dying winter
flew home to Arizona
to stand with my people
breathing a collective farewell
to a patriarch, near-centenarian
dear faces flooded the church doors
the sun bright, unawares
I sat diagonally behind my grandmother
a dangerous place, I know
I’d never seen her cry
I couldn’t bear to sit next to her
too coward to fill Popo’s space
too grieved to sit further than an arm’s reach
a reach I’d never make, even if I could
there’s only so much affection
a stoic can take
and a church full of time’s collected people
is an attention that weakens the strongest reserve

My father and his brothers
took the stage
I sat astonished as they played “Bugler’s Holiday”
three trumpets and a piano
tearless, soaring, Popo loved to hear them play
I didn’t cry
I sat with my people
sending silent strength to the stage
praying they would make it through
I knew if one of them broke
it would surely bring the sun down
that the space left behind would crush us

My uncle Gary spoke and sang
of a precious father who stayed, ever-present
an astonishing gift to stay
to be solid in flesh, even when too loud
at ball games and when building projects
a faithful employee, a deep well of faith
When he could hardly walk
he pledged to bring communion
buying the crackers and juice
once a month at the Walmart
a man who stayed, who served

The brothers sang again and the preacher spoke
and I measured my breaths… almost there

But then a Marine in full dress blues
and a head of gray hair came up the aisle
a folded flag in his hands
he murmured a country’s thanks
she accepted the flag, grateful its delivery
had been delayed, had not come
in 1944 when she would have been younger than me

And my Uncle Rod began playing “Taps”
the last gift given
tears streaming down his face
the trumpet’s notes perfect and clear
the loss floating up to the rafters
signaling the end of ninety-eight years of days
tears streamed down my grandmother’s face
I followed her lead, tears dripping
I fought to stay still, to stay standing
Respects done, we shook hands
staggered out into the sun, still too bright
the loss like the stripped trees of winter
space where fullness should be
we carried the lilies and flower baskets home
to fill an empty place at the table

I flew back home to my family
empty and full and fragile
And as I walked out of the airport
I gasped
the bare trees of winter had sprung white
blooms full and puffed against the azure sky
like Popo stumbled on his way home
and shook out the dust of heaven—
fullness where the space had been
He split the seasons with his final trip
leaving spring’s promise behind to fill his place
hope to keep facing the sun
a farewell and a reminder
To stay and to stand with my people