Vigil

Tonight the moon is held in haze. It must be the sky that is bleary -- my own eyes would not dare tear up for a man I never met. And, yet, I am not alone in blinking, brushing the corner of my eye. I have met with a crowd, some who also say they never knew this hero, but need to say their thanks to him nonetheless.


We do not know when the ceremony will begin. That depends entirely upon the highways. He is coming all the way across the state -- he has come all the way across the globe, once more, and we wait for him quite patiently, talking warmly to one another, about the town, about the country, about each other. Children come with their parents, and they are on their best behavior. Cameras flash. Nobody seems to notice. It is an event, it will be recorded, and it will be remembered.

The singers rehearse the national anthem -- twice. Everybody stands, both times. Everybody sings along quietly, both times. The pipers warm up. More people start arriving. Everybody is polite and helpful. We share candles. Flags are passed around so that everybody who wants one can hold one.


A man we know holds a phone to his ear, then informs us the procession is about an hour away. We relax a little, chat some more. The crowd continues to grow. It seems like forever, it seems like no time at all, and we can hear the rumble of distant motorcycles. I put away my camera -- this is not the time for such. The escort roars up the hill and over, down into the lot behind us. A hearse turns into the circle around which we have gathered. Several more cars pull in behind. As the bikers come join us in the center of the circle, the singers begin: Oh, say can you see.... Men in grimy black leather chaps and jackets, sweaty headbands, dusty boots snap to attention.

A bugler plays the Scott Tattoo -- "Taps". Most of the bikers salute. One gently puts an arm around a white-haired woman whose shoulders cease then to shake.

The chorus begins to sing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic". I can not help myself, I sing along as they come to their third verse:

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free
While God is marching on.

The bikers quietly return to their rides.

The pipers on the hill are playing “Amazing Grace” as though they newly rediscovered it. It is fresh, and just a little broken, and that seems perfect to me. Somebody taught those lads aright. The rumble of thirty-five motorcycles begins, the hearse draws away, out from the circle, and the roar follows it over the hill and away from the city. Quietly the family is driven out in separate cars, to be taken to their house.

The candles go out. It is still unfinished, yet the crowds go home. Let this not be prophecy.