A Tomb with a View - Conclusion

The Sales Counselor left Number 2 and I alone in her office while she made some copies all of the paperwork generated by our visit there.

I looked down at Number 2's shoes and he had tracked in a truckload of freshly cut grass from our earlier visit to my dad's future grave site.

"Nice going, Number 2," I said as I point out his mess. He has always had a "Pigpen" quality about him. Today was no exception.

"It's not my fault that they just cut their grass," Number 2 said sheepishly.

The Sales Counselor came back in, handing me a copy of all of the paperwork, and asked if we had anymore questions.

"When do we give you the clothes that he will be buried in?" I asked.

She directed me to a small office at the entrance. It was like a coat check room...but nobody ever got these clothes back.

I thanked the Sales Counselor for her time and Number 2 and I went back to my car to get my dad's clothes. I had brought with me two Hawaiian shirts, two pairs of slacks, a package of his underwear, his stinky Vans, and a pair of new Vans. Why I brought two of everything, I have no idea.

I opened up the car door and got hit with a smell that can only be described as funky. It took about two seconds to realize what stunk up the car. Two hours in the hot July sun had caused the stinky Vans to ripen. The smell was overpowering.

"Number 2, I can't give these shoes to them!"

"Give them to me. I throw them in the back of my truck and figure out what to do with them."

What a relief! I wouldn't want to take those shoes home but I also didn't want to just toss them. They had become a symbol of my dad's brief retirement. We had made fun of him for not getting new shoes for a while. It was ridiculous that he still was wearing them. But now that he was gone, those shoes became awfully important to both me and Number 2.

We walked back to the small office and turned in the clothes that we wanted him buried in. A young latina girl gave me a receipt and told me to have a nice day. There's just got to be a better platitude for this situation.

Number 2 and I headed back to our cars. He was going to head out to the River and see my Grandparents for the first time since my dad had passed. He was also taking all of my dad's guns out to our uncle's. I was still a day away from the Commander returning home. I told him to call me if anything goes on if he needed to talk.

It hit me right then. Over the course of the last two days, I had called Number 2 so many times that I now had it memorized.

Why does it take my dad's death to get me to memorize my brother's phone number?

VW