My father-in-law passed away a few months ago. We had a rather tempestuous relationship, to say the very least. I knew him for more than 30 years, and in that time I watched as alcohol and bitterness ate away at his soul and body until there was little left functioning of either one.
I had to leave town while he was in the ICU. I stepped in to say goodbye, and he greeted me weakly with the tenderest and most genuine smile I had seen. He wanted to know if I liked my new job, and seemed very glad when I said I did. Then he reached out towards me. For the first and last time in our relationship, we shook hands.
I think he knew we would never meet again.
I stood at his graveside in the bitter North Dakota wind and watched the Color Guard perform flawlessly, honoring his Navy service. His son, my brother-in-law, home on emergency leave from Kosovo stood at his mothers side. My eldest son (USAF) saluted for himself and his brother overseas who could not attend.
I realize now that military service defined more of his character than I ever knew. It was the only part of his life of which he seemed to have no regrets.
On the display shelf in my library stands a short row of fired '06 blank cases, policed from the brown prairie grass of a country cemetary.
And so, to those here who will, I believe, understand;
I think I get it now.
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