turninglifespaiges

Reflecting the last time I saw my dad at the funeral during the last couple posts brought me back to that day. I remember walking in and seeing him there. But it wasn’t really him, not that father I knew, but more of just a representation of him.

I’ll never forget looking at him, his suit perfectly crisp, his face so peaceful; they almost got his image perfect. But his finger nails still blue from lack of circulation, that will be a picture that will never fade. The immortality you think parents have was shattered in a frame of a second, and there I was staring at him before me.

The one thing that made me smile is the request I made with the funeral director. A small ranger tab pin was fastened to the lapel of his jacket. The one I got for him while I was at my Army Basic Officer Leaders Course. I was walking around in the PX (Post Exchange) and saw the pin. I smiled and bought it for him so he could wear his ranger tab to work and wherever he saw fit.

He was so proud to be an Army Airborne Ranger. He even developed a board game and sold it for 35 years that recreated how it was to run a tactical operations mission with a patrol size unit. He came up with all sorts of different variations of events, and the game was pretty successful. It even was for sale in some of his favorite stores near Fort Benning, like Ranger Joes and Commando. Anything Ranger related, he loved. He even donated  profits from his gaming business to the Best Ranger Competition they held every year at Ranger school in Fort Benning. Needless to say, being raised by a Ranger was a honor, and developed my respect to all who’ve earned the right to wear the tab.

When I brought the pin back to him, he smiled one of the biggest grins I’ve seen him wear. He put it on immediately and thanked me. Every time we went out, he’d  have it on his polo/jacket, get my attention, point to it and smile a cheesy grin. One of my favorite memories.

As he lied there in front of me, I couldn’t help but smile a little. At least he’d always be wearing his tab. The tab he worked so hard for, and the one he was most proud of.

The funeral director asked my family would anyone like to say one more goodbye before they closed the casket. My sister and mother declined, but I took one last chance. I patted his suit to make sure it was right, and I gave him one last sigh. I turned on my heel and the casket closed. The rest of the proceedings zoomed by, and I don’t remember saying much. But that hour of my life, that final goodbye, will stick with me forever.