They played Taps at my dad’s funeral. Two teenagers on trumpets. First, the girl, positioned to the back and left of the crowd. Ta-ta-dah, she starts boldly, without the unease of her youth. Each simple note pierces the dry winter air.
Yes, you have our attention. Not another sound. Not even a breath by gathered friends and family.
In time, the second musician’s reply from the front. Ta-da-dah. And a pause. Their six notes arc above us. A mixture of sorrow and respect suspending time to hold the decades of a man’s life, if just for a moment. The spell changes and the players move on to the next passage. Ta-da-dah, ta-da-dah, ta-da-dah, reassuring us and carrying us ahead. Our tears fall freely. The final notes arrive. We have reached its end. We have reached his end.
The spell is completed, and hushed sounds return. The drying of tears. The shifting of feet on carpet. A low sun shines through the church window. Movement is solemn and purposeful. The flag that covers the casket is removed. Elderly men from the American Legion know the exact steps. They fold it just so, place it in my mother’s aged hands. Honored family members wheel the casket out the door, never to be seen again by my eyes. In the spring, when the ground allows, there will be a proper burial. I will be far away by then and unable to attend.
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