Steele
As I had a week ago, I drove out far away from Albuquerque, far away from Santa Maria, and into the distant plains of eastern New Mexico to the graveyard that immortalized one of the greatest losses and the most tragic day of my life.
But this time, I wasn’t willing to content myself with being a bitch and stopping at the side of the funeral home.
If I couldn’t handle Elizabeth asking one simple question about my past—not even probing, just asking why it made me so sensitive—then I needed to make it so I could handle it. And you know what…
I would handle it.
I would. I would make sure of it. I wasn’t certain that I would do it now, here, on this exact visit, but I would do everything in my power to make sure that I could do it at some point. It was getting exhausting living like this, unwilling to face head-on an enormous part of my life.
I parked my bike at the front of the funeral home, not surprisingly the only vehicle in the parking lot. I put the kickstand down, lowered my head, and marched forward. I was kind of walking blind, but for someone who rarely came here, I knew already exactly where I needed to go.
A day like that, you didn’t forget where everything was.
I walked around the side of the home, over the small rolling hill, and saw a series of graves come into view.Back row, to the left.I kept marching, my eyes downcast, more attuned to the pebbles on the ground than the rows of tombstones. Soon, it turned to grass and flowers.
But I kept my head down.
When I reached the back row, I took a sharp left, so hard that my vision blurred momentarily. I walked about twenty feet, turned right, and looked up.
And there it was.
“Here lies Stuart Harrison. Gulf War Veteran, Caring Father and Husband, and Loving Presence. November 11, 1972-June 13, 2005.”
Some of that epitaph was true. He was a military veteran, a Marine. He was a caring father and a husband; we never lacked for anything that we needed.
And he had died on June 13th, 2005. Even though that had happened over a decade ago, I could recall the day with more clarity than I could the color and shape of my bike.
And I could recall why that day was so painful and so aggravating. And it wasn’t just because of who had died that day.
“Hey, Dad,” I said.
I bit my lip. No other words came. What else was I supposed to say?
I didn’t know. I hadn’t come here with a plan other than that I needed to face this. I needed to confront this fear. But there was nothing I had that I could say to my father. As awful as this might have been, he wasn’t what made this moment particularly painful. His absence was not the great cause of grief in my life.
But when I looked to my left, when I saw Stan’s grave…
I turned away.
No, you have to look. You have to talk to Stan. You have to say something.
Damnit, Steele, come on!
I whirled back.
“Here lies Stanley Harrison. Loving son, best friend, and the best twin brother there ever was.”
Goddamnit…
I squatted down where I was, leaned forward on one arm, and bit my lip as I tried to fight the tears that formed. Was it any wonder that people wanted to know why I was so resistant to opening up like this?
What was it like when you knew what it was like to practically see yourself dead and to know that that would come someday?
What was it like when your brother was killed, and that the corruption of the town not only caused it, it prevented you from getting to it before he passed away?
It was fucking horrible. It was soul-crushing. It was something that, even now, I looked past because looking at it, well, it turned me into this.
