I stood there on the street waiting for the sign to tell me that I could cross. In the distance I could hear our oldest boy’s diesel truck coming down the street. As I crossed the street my legs were weak, but the sun felt good against my body. The oldest boy pulled up in the parking lot across from the hospital. “Daddy, I would have picked you up from the hospital, so you did not have to walk”. I said, “Your truck will not fit in the parking garage, and I needed to know my legs still worked.” He asked, “What did you do up there for four days?” I said, “I never turned on the television, listened to music, wrote anything, I guess I was just thinking.” He said, “Are you mad at that tick for biting you?” I said, “No sir, that tick was just doing his job and he was damn good at his job.” He asked, “Are we still going to the memorial?” I said, “We are still going but I will need your help getting there.”

As we pulled into the airport after driving 13 hours the oldest asked, “When did you first meet the City Girl?” I said, “About 10 years ago today in this same airport. We were both sent here to respond to the explosion. Death brought us together but the pain we saw and felt bonded us for life. No doubt she is a City Girl but her heart rides amongst the highest pines.” As we pulled up to the curb the City Girl stood there just like she did 10 years ago.

As we drove down the interstate, I told the City Girl this is where the Dentist (a nickname I gave to a fire fighter that survived the explosion) was killed a few weeks ago. I came back for his service and even though I know he is gone, I still have trouble accepting it.

The next morning the sun was bright, and the wind blew enough to give our flag the strength to pop as she rode the currents of hope. The fire trucks were displayed, the chairs were aligned, and people spoke of that day. I stood in the back tucked under a crepe myrtle tree with a firefighter who I have known since that day 10 years ago. He never speaks of that day. He never drives down the street where it “happened”, but he continues to embrace the life he lives. His heart too rides amongst the highest pines.

A meal at the modest fire station followed the memorial service. The walls of the fire station are rich with pictures of the history of this little town. As the people came and went there were still chairs that were never sat in. The Mother Hen tended to her flock and anyone who entered the fire station. Some things never change. The Devil Dog sat there with that look from a man who has seen a few things. He moves a little slower these days but his eyes dance with life.

Our oldest found himself a chair in the bay with the fire trucks and some firemen. I stood back in the room where the turn out gear is stored and watched them. The smell of smoke and destruction floated from their turn out gear. I watched the men talk to the boy. I watched them laugh and enjoy his soul wanting to know more about this town. I stood there in the darkness but had enough light to see the name tag of the Dentist and where his turn out gear would have been stored.

Over the last ten years when I could make it back on the anniversary date, we would visit the cemeteries and acknowledge the ones who had gone before. The Dentist would always drive the fire truck and he would always run the siren for the boys. We loaded up in the fire truck and drove to the Dentist’s house. His bride of almost 40 years greeted us with a hugs. She took the oldest and I into the Dentist’s shop and showed us the diesel truck he was building. The shop was rich with life and character. Clearly, he had a system to his organization. I ran my hand across his tools and for a moment I could feel the soul of a strong man. I took a picture of a homemade sign that someone made to remember that day when it “happened”.

I asked his bride if we would barrow his helmet and take the Dentist with us on our cemetery run. She said, “Sure, but I think you should drive his truck too.” To some an offer to drive a man’s truck is not a big deal but in this case it was huge. Though my fingers itched to take the keys I told the oldest, “You and the City Girl drive his truck”. The Devil Dog, Mother Hen, the Dentist helmet, and myself loaded up in the fire truck. The sound of the Dentist diesel thundered against the stone cemetery monuments. As we left each cemetery the Devil Dog would run the siren. The last grave site we went to was the Dentist. He would always take his cowboy hat off to acknowledge the ones gone before. I stood there and waiting for him and realized it was our time to acknowledge him.

The next morning, we stood at the airport where this story began some ten years ago. The City Girl said, “I’m sorry we did not get to visit more.” I said, “It’s ok.” As she walked away, I realized once again death brought us together.

The 13-hour drive home was long. The oldest talked about his time with the fire fighters and driving the Dentist’s truck. He talked about the conversations he had with everyone and what he observed was not said. I sat there with my sunglasses on looking out the window and thanked God our route was full of farmland and trees. More than once the sunglasses covered my not so dry eyes. These words spun in my head but the miles we had to travel stopped me from finding a place to write.

We have done our best to raise two young men with a strong moral and logical compass. Two young men who have not been sheltered from the twists and turns that life can present. After ten years of coming to that town where it “happened” I think this last trip finally explained why to me and others it’s a town with magic. Not the kind of magic that is an illusion but the kind of magic that makes you stand back and question how they keep going. I’ve often said if you embrace death for what it’s worth you will live a fuller life. You will embrace the little things, you will have more patience, and your heart will grow more. Death does knock at our doors. Death sometimes knocks very light and sometimes very hard. Sometimes death opens the door for us even when we try and close it. In a small town that most have never heard of it appears death and life coexist. The door to death and life is always open. Yes, they will grieve the cowboy boots that will never be worn again but when death knocks, they simply say, “It’s unlocked, come on in.” I’m not sure if the oldest saw what I saw this trip. I know he does see that death brought us all together and with every new death we bond more.

As we rolled into the driveway we were greeted by the not so puppy. The oldest said, “Daddy I had a great time. I thought it would be depressing but it wasn’t”. I said, “Son the dead don’t die unless you let them”.

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