“We have a program you can hand out,” Elsie says. “If you’d like.”
“I would.”
Elsie and Iain leave to take care of a few arrangements, and Jacob and I head out to a patch of grass on the right side of the main door.
Jacob sets his bag on the ground and gets down on one knee. He takes his pipes out of the bag, and his hands are a blur as he assembles it all efficiently.
“You do that so fast,” I say.
He looks up, his mouth forming a grin. “Muscle memory.”
He swings the bag under his arm and stands back up, positioning the instrument just so.
“I’m going to start,” he says. “You might want to take a couple steps back.”
He takes a deep breath, fixes his mouth to the pipe, and blows. And my hands fly to my ears.
I forgot how loud the bagpipes are. The sound is all-encompassing, like another heartbeat, thrumming through me. And then his fingers fly, forming a melody, something majestic but melancholy at the same time.
I leave to pass out programs, but when Jacob’s song changes, I look over at him. His hair is darker—not entirely wet, but damp, from the light rain that’s started to fall.
He turns his head at that moment, his cheeks puffing in and out, and surprise flashes across his face when he catches me watching him.
I quickly look away.
More and more people come. There’s no longer a lull between each guest, but a steady stream, and I’m busy, handing out one program after another.
The minutes fly by until the line comes to an end. I shuffle the few remaining papers in my hands and wait for Jacob to finish his current song.
He’s looking away, out onto the street, and a strong wind blows, making his kilt flutter around his legs.
A minute or so later, the song ends with one last strong note before he pulls away. Jacob removes his mouth from the pipe andshifts the bag, cradling it under one arm, tilting it so the tall pipes rest on his shoulder.
His chest rises and falls, and I watch him take a deep breath, recovering from the exertion. It’s not just physical exhaustion I see, but emotional exhaustion as well. It’s written across the lines of his face, clear in the way he bends down and packs up his pipes, each movement slow, as if everything is too heavy.
It’s there in the way he looks over at me, no more walls put up, everything stripped back and bare.
I make my way over to him, extending a hand in his direction when he’s done putting his pipes back in his bag. He takes it, his grip firm as he pulls himself back up.
Did he play these songs at James’s funeral? At his parents’?
How much grief has this man had to bear?
“That was beautiful,” I tell him, and he squeezes my hand.
“I—thank you.”
“You ready to go inside?” I ask.
He nods. I make no move to pull my hand away, and he doesn’t release it. Instead, his rough palm slides against mine, and our fingers move of their own accord, naturally interlocking.
We walk into the kirk that way, slipping into one of the back pews, and even when the service starts, we stay that way, our joined hands resting between us.
We sing a few songs and listen to the eulogy, given by Brian’s son.
Throughout it all, Jacob sits still, his spine straight. His grip on my hand is firm, occasionally tightening at the words said.
“We’ll miss you, Dad,” the speaker says. “You taught us, all of us, so much, but I wonder how many more lessons you had to give. How much more we could have learned if we’d only had more time.”
