"I have to bury my brother today."

I woke up in the morning
on the day we were to bury you
and realized I had nothing to wear
to your funeral.
So my morning started off with a teary
trip to the store
which is the least fun kind of shopping
a girl can do.
I numbly walked past racks and wondered,
“I have to bury my brother today...
how am I suppose to dress for that?”
But God has mercy on the grieving
and the first dress I tried on
I bought.

We drove to the funeral home--
my husband, my baby and me.
It was one of those trips that was filled
with those deep guttural sobs that catch in your throat
and leave you gasping for a breath.
It was a quiet trip,
punctured only by a grief that my body wouldn’t let escape
for fear of its affects.

We found ourselves greeted by a line of patriot guards;
they wrapped around the building
and guarded every door
like a leather-wearing, tattoo-bearing, flag-waving army of angels.
It was a moving sight.
I walked to the door alone,
but stopped short of entering
“I don’t want to go in.
That’s my brother in there.
I don’t want to go in.”
One of the guards hugged me
until I had mustered up the necessary courage.

I walked inside and up the stairs
feeling lost and fragile,
I imagine I looked as I felt;
like the slightest bump would have shattered me.
I didn’t really know how to greet people,
and was grateful when the service started.

We sang,
we cried,
we “alright”-ed,
we spoke,
we listened,
we said, “goodbye,”
we carried your coffin,
we survived.

Then we lined up in a processional
to escort you to the cemetery;
it was reminiscent of the tarmac caravan,
only much, much longer.

At the cemetery,
we found your fellow Airmen,
faithfully lined up,
standing tall in their dress blues to honor you.
We stopped our car and walked to
the freshly dug grave that was for you.
It was a large open hole,
the dirt to fill it with was piled atop
your brothers graves,
waiting.

The scene that we found was a bit unorganized,
but it all came together in typical Noah fashion.
Looking over the day,
the wrinkles that needed to be ironed out
were far better and full of purpose
than we could have planned.

When the vault was in the ground,
we sat in a line of chairs
alongside your coffin.
The honor guard carefully folded the flag
that was draped over you,
heart-wrenching fold
by heart-wrenching fold
until it was meticulously handed to a man
to present to our mama.

How do you hand a mother the flag
that laid atop her son’s casket?
What words do you say to bring her comfort
as you share in the moments of her grievous loss?
“On behalf of the president of the United States of America...”
Our mama’s hands accepted your flag,
even as they seemed to long to comfort
the one who placed it in them.

There was another flag for our papa.
What do you say to the man
whose son lay in the coffin on your left?
What words do you say to offer strength
to the father who had lost three and yet who "never had any extra kids?”
“On behalf of the president of the United States of America...”
Our papa’s hands accepted your flag,
even as they extended strength to
the one who placed it in them.

The honor guard behind us
stood ready with their rifles raised
in a three-volley salute.
>Bang<
My heart cringed
>Bang<
and my tears fell.
>Bang<
Then the woeful sound of a bugle
began to glide atop the air;
the peaceful proclamation of Taps
“Day is done, gone the sun
from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky...
as we go, this we know
God is nigh.”
After the scripture was read over your coffin,
your brothers-in-arms stepped forward
and took the honored task of lifting you up
to courageously carry you across unstable boards
and crumbing ground
to lower you into your grave.
It was no small thing they did for us,
I am certain none of them had placed a man
into a grave before
and I am certain none of them wish for the opportunity
to do it again.
One of them graciously left his hat with you.

And then the time was upon us
that our mama had told me would be as painful as
the labor it took to bring you into this world;
as we began to sing
“Now the moment has come when we must say farewell...”
one-by-one your siblings stood
and moved as those who’d taken on such a task
too many times before,
to pick up the shovels
that leaned against the linden tree
that sways majestically over our brothers’ graves.

The sound of the shovels
digging into the pile of dirt
joined the melodic voices,
and the harsh sounds of the dirt falling onto
the cement vault
hammered in the reality:
We were burying our brother today.

My shoes filled with dirt
as I carried the shovels full,
so I took them off.
As I stood in the dress I had bought that morning,
with my bare feet in the grass and dirt
beside your grave,
I offered you what was left of my strength, Noah,
and did my part to cover you.

Eventually the sorrow overflowed
and I fell into the nearby arms
of our sister
who absorbed my sobbing soul
with her own.

Others joined our efforts
as we buried you,
they offered their strength
where ours was stretched too thin.
And when the dirt had all been placed into
the freshly dug grave,
when the last note of the hymn faded,
when we had brushed the dirt from your brother's foot stones,
there was nothing left for us to do,
but turn around

and walk away.

“I have to bury my brother today.”
May those words never fall
from our lips again.

Though we cannot see you anymore beside us,
Noah David Muonio,
we will always see you fondly
in our minds-eye.