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Reflections November 2016

Just Sayin’

The Final Flight

By Lynn Gendusa

A soldier came home to Colorado on an almost-October day – a man who fought for us to be able to fly anywhere we want. He fought and died for us to have the freedom to sit down when his flag is raised or to respectfully stand. A soldier whose bravery keeps us having the freedom to make choices and share differing beliefs. A soldier who enabled us to fight our political battles and vote for our leaders.

September 30th was a day I had looked forward to for quite a while. It had been nine months since I had seen my son. That is longer than we usually go without a visit. Colorado and Atlanta seemed to be getting further apart. It was way past time to see my boy.

Delta Flight 1817 was on time leaving Atlanta on this beautiful, warm, almost October afternoon. It felt good to sit down for a moment and unwind. I had packed a notepad, my crossword puzzles, my iPad and a few other things to keep me entertained on my flight across the country.

I love to hear the roar of the engines and see the mountains looming up to touch the clouds. I love the quilted pattern of the earth below and my silent guessing game of: “Exactly where am I?”

Flight 1817 was free from turbulent air and turbulent fliers. It was Friday and folks were on their way home from a week on business, or leaving home to visit the scenic beauty of Colorado, or visit a sister, or a parent, or a son.

I drank my diet coke and ate my little bag of 10 peanuts and settled into my journey. I thought about how hard it is when your children live far away. How hard it is to be a mom and have to let go of those precious ones and let them have their lives.

Have you ever noticed that is not written in a guidebook about children? Yes, they grow up and can move away! Oh well, I am just fortunate enough to be on this flight to cure the distance part of motherhood.

Finally, the jet engines started to slow down and I knew we were preparing for our descent into Denver. I was looking forward to seeing those crazy looking Cirque du Soleil tents looming on the flat plains outside of the city. The white fiberglass peaks are supposed to emulate the Rocky Mountains, but I have yet to get that visual.

It doesn’t matter, they are a welcome site for this old mama who just wants to see her 41-year-old baby boy.

The plane landed smoothly and started to taxi toward the gate. My watch said we were ten minutes early. Yippee!!

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Today we have a fallen soldier who has traveled home with us. I will ask you to remain seated until we have returned him safely back to his family. He is escorted today by a Marine captain. Please stay seated until we tell you it is OK to deboard.”

The Marine stood up in front of the plane, his back to all of us. When he saluted the pilot, 200-plus fliers loudly applauded.

Directly to my right I could see the activity on the tarmac. Black SUVs idled as Marines in full dress uniforms filed out and stood in formation. Then a hearse and a Honda pulled up to the side of the plane.

While the passengers looked out the windows, complete and utter silence enveloped the interior as well as the exterior of Delta flight 1817.

A tall young man accompanied his father out of the Honda, holding him as he stood. A mother was being held tightly by a friend or family member. Another young woman stood alone.

I could see every emotion in their bodies and faces. As the cargo hold door opened, the father started to crumble. His arms folded around his head as if to block out what his brain was not prepared to see.

The mother grasped her friend tighter, as she too, started to fall.

The military honor guard, in perfect splendor and cadence, lifted the flag-draped silver coffin from the plane and marched it toward the hearse.

The red, white, and blue, crisply covering a fallen Marine. This flag would never fly again above our land, but instead be folded and given to the family now watching their son departing from his final flight.

A soldier came home to Colorado on an almost-October day – a man who fought for us to be able to fly anywhere we want. He fought and died for us to have the freedom to sit down when his flag is raised or to respectfully stand. A soldier whose bravery keeps us having the freedom to make choices and share differing beliefs. A soldier who enabled us to fight our political battles and vote for our leaders.

A young soldier who took his last flight in order for us to fly free.

A soldier whose parents didn’t get to say goodbye, or have a chance to visit their baby boy again.

Finally, the hearse drove away, along with the Honda and the Marines in their black SUVs.

What remained were passengers left with tears in their eyes, some even sobbing. When they left the plane there was not a word spoken by a single passenger as they walked back toward their own lives.

I spent five blissful days with my son. I went for a walks with him daily. I watched as he ran in front of me to play with his dog in the park near a school. He threw the ball as Miner chased it into the field.

I watched as my son’s legs moved and his arms flew into the air. I watched his mouth form into laughter, and his voice loom as he called the dog’s name.

I absorbed every moment of this picture of living while knowing another mother would never have another new picture.

I silently prayed and as I did I saw the American flag in the school yard.

Thanks to the fallen soldier, the red, white, and blue was still flying high against the cloudless, sun-drenched Colorado sky.

 

Lynn Gendusa is a retired interior designer living in Atlanta, Georgia. She can be reached at  This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

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