Faded

I almost didn’t see you when you walked into the shop.

Your second oldest, a daughter with long red hair, walked in before you.

You were wearing black: a cap, suit jacket, pants, shoes, and a white shirt.

Your face was faded; a shadow of what I remember of you from before.

Your voice was very soft.

You were moving in a trance. 

You were dismantling your booth at a place where Fiber people previously had booths  and a gathering spot.

The shop was closing, so everything had to go.

I didn’t know you well at all.

I had seen you at the shop on a few Wednesday evenings.

I also had seen you at some Fiber events.

I approached your daughter and asked her if she was the daughter that was in the military.

I recall that you had talked about your youngest daughter preparing to go into the service.

Your daughter explained that she was a Civil Servant, but was not actively serving in the military.

You came over to where your daughter and I were talking.

I asked you how many children you have.

You told me that you used to have two sons and two daughters.

Your youngest son had passed away recently.

I said I was sorry and what happened?

You responded that he died quickly and unexpectedly.

You recited this information like you had probably done, too often, recently.

I was at the shop both for a last Wednesday evening together with other Fiber folk and to purchase  a rug that you had designed and felted.

It was important to you to have a picture of me with your rug, which was hanging on the wall  at that point.

I suggested that you be in the picture too, since you made the rug.

Your daughter obliged us and took two or three pictures of us with the rug.

The owner of the shop, as an aside, said that she would tell me more about your son later.

There wasn’t much to tell.

Your youngest son was 21. 

He was to return to the Marines on January 1.

This was also the day that he died. He had six months left of his Tour of Duty and then he could’ve been discharged.

The funeral was done quickly.

It was the Saturday following the Wednesday that he died.

The minister had to stop several times during the service, because he was overcome with emotion.

Your husband is a retired military pilot. 

Your oldest son is in the Navy and trains recruits in California. 

The daughter, helping you, lives in Georgia.

Your younger daughter is training to be a Naval pilot in Texas.

I am sorry that your son’s name was not mentioned.

I believe it is always important to speak the person’s name.

I cannot say “I am here if there is anything you need”, because I may or may not see you again. I can’t imagine the heartache you must feel. 

Words seem inadequate to express the sadness that I feel for you.

I somehow want to tether you to the Earth.

I don’t want you to fade away or disappear. 

I want your friends and family to walk in your shadow, hold your hand, and be there for you. 

Nobody can tell you when it’s OK to remove the mask that says “I’m OK. I’ll get through this”;  because it feels like it will never happen.

He is your baby and will be with you every day in your heart.  

About Brenda Mulry

I had a long career as a Licensed Occupational Therapist working in the public school system. Currently, I am a fiber artist who continues to experiment in other art mediums.