The goodbye that lasts forever
At first my state of mind made it difficult to concentrate on the ceremony. The color guard snapped me out of my day dream and I covered my heart while the Star Spangled Banner played. It was a Coast Guard changing of command ceremony in Port Angeles, Washington. A cutter was being transfered and the boys did a fine job. We (Annie and myself) had been invited by the wife of the man giving up the reigns of power; he was on to another assignment based in Seattle. I was lost in thought. It was a marvelously warm day. The waters of the marina served as a gray backdrop to my equally gray mood. It had been a long night.
Phone calls from my father come at reasonable hours. The night before he called at a late hour to inform me that my sister was dead. At first I thought I must be having a nightmare, but in my subconscious mind I had expected this call for many years. The saga was finally over.
Most parents have to talk and talk about drugs to their kids - we never did. Aunt Marvie was a walking metaphor. Casual drug use turned into a way of life and in the end, a way of death. Dad told me that she had died in her bed, most likely in her sleep. That comforted me in an odd way. Marva, the sister just sixteen months older than me, passed with dignity.
There were years when there was no contact and certainly no bed or apartment. She lived in the desert and spent cold nights sleeping in drain pipes. There were many terribly cold nights that I prayed for her, shedding tears as I thought about the rain and freezing temperatures. Once I saw her walking down the street stoned out of her mind. She was so pale and gaunt that I didn’t recognize my own sibling at first. She was just one of the many all of us turn away from, the wretched poor. But this was my sister. We grew up together, fought a great deal and loved one another. I bought some hamburgers and drove until I found her. I had not seen her in years. I didn’t speak and neither did she. Marva accepted the hamburgers and began to shuffle away in a pair of worn bedroom slippers. I turned down a side street and cried all the way home. I knew she was in a bad place, but seeing her in this horrid condition shook me to the core.
My father got her out of the desert and moved her onto his property. She lived in the motor home and slowly began to become human again. He got her to go to the doctor and soon she had sworn off drugs and was on her way back. She got Social Security benefits and secured a small apartment in Rosamond, California. I went to see her in May and we had a grand time. Jenna, my daughter, was able to come up from Valencia and spend some time with her aunt. Our sister, Vicky, was there and dad and his girlfriend, Mary, fixed a nice dinner of a Russian soup (borscht) we are all fond of. I kissed her at the door, never thinking I would not see her again.
There is something about hard, menial labor. For me it is therapy - it clears my head. I had spent the morning writing my sister’s obituary and it was much harder than I thought. Her’s was a difficult and complex life. She endured the death of her husband, the total disrespect of her two step-children, drug and alcohol abuse and a tattered work history. After I condensed and rewrote, I printed the final draft. I thought to myself, I’m getting pretty good at writing obituaries. That made me break down. So I began hauling wheel barrow loads of rock up the back forty of my property. I mindlessly tossed pebbles, stones and boulders until I could barely lift the thing. My arms ached and my back throbbed - the pain was a reminder that I still have my life and I want it to count.
So now I am at the end of a difficult day. I have come to the conclusion that my sister did have a life that counted and made a difference. I remembered how kind she could be and how she took in misfits like stray kittens. When I told her on Father’s Day (the last time I spoke to her on the phone) that I planned to dedicate my next book of poetry to her she was ecstatic. I’m glad I didn’t save it for a surprise she would never see. On the phone with my friends last night they all had warm things to say about my sister. One buddy reminded me what a good dancer she was. I had forgotten that.
The old boss walked up to review his troops, ten men who served under his command on the cutter. The military is a place where people come and go. I was seated closest to the men standing at parade rest as their leader shook each of their hands and gave them encouragement. Eight of the men smiled and bobbed their heads. It was obvious that they were fond of their leader. Two of the men’s eyes burned as he spoke to them. There was an unspoken love for the man they served and they probably knew that their paths would not cross again. There were no tears, but I felt their pain as I watched them hang on his every word. In the bright sunshine, with the fog laden Olympic Mountains in the distance, these shipmates said the goodbye that lasts forever. I turned away, in respect, and looked at the magnificient beauty before me. The only thought I had during this moment was it is so good to be alive.
I found out that Mary had taken some photos of our little dinner party and she vowed to make some copies for me. I can sit here at my computer and think of all the ways my sister contributed to my life. But life goes on. There is no guarantee of tomorrow so make it count today. I’m anxious to see those pictures. In that moment I’ll thank God that I’m alive - alive to experience the goodbye that lasts forever.
