"Lieutenant Delgado?" A young firefighter from a neighboring department approached me nervously. "I'm supposed to tell you the color guard is in position, and the honor guard is ready for your signal."
"Thank you. Five minutes."
I stepped outside, needing air, needing space. The street was lined with fire apparatus from dozens of departments, their lights flashingin synchronized silence. Firefighters in dress uniforms stood in perfect formation, their faces solemn. At the far end of the street, I could see news crews setting up their cameras. Cap would have hated the media attention, but he'd have understood it. This was how the fire service honored its own.
"Izzy."
I turned to find Jimmy approaching from the parking area. He was in a dark suit, looking handsome but out of place among all the uniforms. His eyes were red-rimmed and worried, focused entirely on me.
"How are you holding up?" he asked softly.
"Fine," I said automatically.
"No, you're not." He stepped closer, his voice gentle. "You don't have to be fine for me. Not today."
Something in his tone, the careful way he was looking at me, made me want to scream. Or cry. Or both. Instead, I felt the wall grow thicker.
"I need to get back inside. The service is starting soon."
"Izzy, wait." He caught my arm gently. "I just wanted to say... Cap was a good man. I'm so sorry."
I looked at his hand on my arm, then back at his face, and nodded. "Yeah."
I pulled away from his touch and walked back into the station, leaving him standing on the sidewalk. Inside, the crowd had settled into respectful silence. Every seat was filled, with firefighters and paramedics standing along the walls and spilling out into the apparatus bay. I recognized faces from stations across the region, men and women who'd traveled hours to pay their respects to a firefighter they'd probably never met but understood completely.
The service was everything Cap would have wanted — respectful, solemn, focused on his service rather than his death. The department chaplain spoke about sacrifice and brotherhood.The fire chief read a letter from the governor. Margaret spoke briefly about Cap's dedication to his department family.
And then it was my turn.
I stepped to the podium, looking out at a sea of dress uniforms and badges draped in black mourning bands. The silence was complete, respectful, waiting.
"How do I explain who Captain O'Sullivan was?" I began, my voice carrying clearly through the packed station. "He'd want you to know he was a fireman. A truckie. He wouldn't brag about his thirty-two years of service, or tell you that he was considered the senior man not just on his truck, but for the entire department."
I found Jimmy in the crowd, standing at the back near the apparatus bay doors. Our eyes met briefly, and I saw the pain there, the love, the desperate wish to comfort me. But I felt nothing. The grief was there, locked away, but I couldn't access it. Wouldn't access it.
"He was a member of the Honor Guard," I continued, "and he would travel anywhere, on his own time and his own dime, to be there for the family of someone he'd never met. He believed that when a firefighter fell, we all fell a little. And when we gathered to honor them, we all stood a little taller."
My voice caught slightly, the only crack in my composure. I paused, gathering myself, aware of the hundreds of eyes watching me.
"But mostly, he was kind. I remember one day when I was having a particularly hard time. I was sitting in the station lounge, feeling sorry for myself, probably not hiding it very well. Cap found me there, and he didn't ask what was wrong or try to fix anything. He just pulled me out of that chair and gave me a hug. That was Cap. He left kindness in his wake."
I stepped back from the podium as the honor guard prepared for the ceremonial elements. The presentation of the flag to Margaret, folded with military precision. The three-volley salute that mademe flinch — not from the sound, but from the finality of it. And then, carried on the cold morning air, the haunting notes of "Amazing Grace" played on bagpipes.
The music cut through me like a blade, piercing through the wall I'd built to reach something raw and broken inside. But I didn't let it show. I stood at attention, dry-eyed and controlled, as the most important person in my life was honored and mourned and finally laid to rest.
And then, the last call came over our radios … dispatch honoring Cap with the traditional final call for a fallen firefighter.
"Summit County Dispatch to Captain Michael O'Sullivan, Badge Number 2847."
Silence.
"Captain O'Sullivan, Badge Number 2847."
The static stretched on, heavy with meaning.
"Captain Michael O'Sullivan, your service to Summit County Fire Rescue and the citizens you protected has ended. Your watch is complete. Rest in peace. Ridge Street Station is out of service for Captain Michael O'Sullivan."
The radio fell silent, and with it, an era ended.
