Boots on the Ground by Dusk by Tillman Mary; Zacchino Narda; Zacchino Narda

Author:Tillman, Mary; Zacchino, Narda; Zacchino, Narda
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rodale Inc
Published: 2008-04-06T04:00:00+00:00

Alex then walked in front of the podium, picked up the glass of Guinness, toasted Pat, and introduced Richard. I was struck by how tired and sad Alex looked. He was being very strong, but the pain in his eyes was obvious. Over the last several years, Pat and Alex had spent a lot of time together. I knew Pat was important to Alex and that he was feeling a profound sense of loss.

Alex walked off, and Richard walked up to the microphone. I was stunned. I didn’t realize he was going to speak. I had given him a poem I wanted to have read; my close friend Julie Filippini e-mailed it to me. Julie was out of the country and unable to attend the service. I expected Richard to give the poem to someone else to read. He was so grief-stricken and angry; I didn’t think it was wise for him to be up there. Marie was also concerned for him as she took my hand and squeezed it, knowing I was anxious for him.

I didn’t do a good job of teaching my sons not to swear. The fact is, I did a terrible job. All three of them talked like stevedores, no matter the audience. After he took a drink from a pint of Guinness, I knew “f” bombs were going to fly. Richard had difficulty keeping himself composed. He was brief—and unforgettable.

I didn’t write shit because I’m not a writer. I just want to say it was really amazing to be his little baby brother, to be his Pooh [he starts breaking up here]. But I still have my Nubbin. [looking at Kevin] What up, Nub?

I’m not just going to sit up here and break down on you. But thank you for coming. Pat’s a fucking champion and always will be. But just make no mistake, he’d want me to say this, he’s not with God; he’s fucking dead. He’s not religious, so thanks for your thoughts, but he’s fucking dead. Yeah, take care….

He walked from the stage, then returned.

Sorry, Mom, I almost forgot. My mom wanted someone to read the poem [attributed to Mary Elizabeth Frye] and I’m … not pawning that off on anyone, I’ll do that.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on the ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there: I did not die.

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