First of all I’m here to say I went away and lived to fly another day.

I found the place they called a terminal and agreed to enter after being convinced

It wasn’t a permanent state of mind or body. I should have tested the ease with which my shoes came off and on. Today they wouldn’t. I yanked and pulled and fell flat on my face.

I pleaded “arthritis” with my eyes.  But no one heard me. Or cared.   The line backed up behind me.

They confiscated my shaving cream and my Old Spice, the latter no doubt as an item for their amusement or for their antique collection. Those bastards. Two airports and two flights later, I still had 200 miles to go. I should have guessed but didn’t that car rentals are not automatic for some of us. I had to pass a long set of interrogatories just to rent a car.  It’s an age thing. I passed the test—barely. Then it still took me 2 hours just to get out of the airport.

Fortunately, map reading was not part of the test. Now, 200 miles more to go and 3 hours in which to do it. My friend can wait, I thought. He’s in a permanent and a terminal state. He died 3 days ago.

If seemed like only yesterday we were just a couple of kids. Yeah, sure. It was more like 65 years ago.

From Vietnam to Casablanca, and many points in between, we had seen it all. And we had put away more cases of beer than even Budweiser knew about. That was our secret to life and how to deal with it. Now we were just two old men, he in an ashen state, and me with an ashen face.

I arrived with one minute to spare.   You can do the math about the speed violations.

The funeral home and chapel were dripping with lavish things. The dough they must have spent on this place. No wonder dying is so expensive. They led me to a front row pew right across from his family.   God, they looked beautiful, especially the grand kids. It was only then I realized my suit coat and trousers did not match. A young Navy chaplain talked about God and love and items not often found on my list of things to say. He was good. He’d be a tough act to follow. But I was cagy and experienced.  

“We have someone here to say a few words,” he intoned.   That was an introduction befitting a prisoner to his parole board, I thought. I hobbled to the podium and laid my notes there with care.

As I looked up it was only then I could see the room was completely full. I had no idea my friend knew so many people. And I knew only his wife who was looking at me with pleading eyes.   I took that as a sign that I’d better be good.   As I opened my mouth to speak, the impact of a thousand miles of distance traveled and 50 degrees of temperature changes from the balmy zone to the frigid zone had wrapped themselves around my vocal cords. Not a sound came out. Holy shit! I coughed and sputtered and tried again. Nothing happened.   I glanced at my friend now inurned and enclosed by flowers. I’m pretty sure I heard laughter.   I looked out at those in attendance and saw 50 sets of eyes wondering who, what, or why I was there.   I might have panicked but my friend’s laughter was getting to me. I cleared my throat and tried again. Then something approaching panic did set in. As I looked down I saw that I had taken the wrong folder from my satchel of things. Instead of my eulogy notes, there in front of me was one of my poems. My brain went into WARP speed. Would they rather hear about the good ol’ days they knew nothing about, or be lifted and flown to a new place with my poem?   The setting was perfect. My friend had by now been lifted and flown to a new place. Why not let them experience something new also? With the decision made, my voice impairment cleared itself for takeoff. 

I must have wowed them. At the VFW gathering a short while later, lots of beer came my way along with a few of the best compliments I had heard in a long time. "Man, you’re one hell of a poet. That was beautiful."   Rest in peace, Dave. And stop your laughing.