The traffic escort officers whom we had spoken to earlier assured us that they now had enough escorts to handle the number of cars in the procession. (We were informed later that the procession line stretched for more than a mile behind the hearse carrying our son's casket.) As we started down the street, I remember thinking that we didn't seem to be taking a very direct line to the cemetery. As I looked out the window of the limo, I suddenly realized that the route we were taking would take us by the high school. I wondered why they were going that way. When we approached the school, I saw that the marquee in front of the campus had a message of condolence for us, and that the flag in front of the office was at half-staff. It was another sign of how much our son, and we, as well, were loved and respected. The procession arrived at the cemetery where we had been just the day before for the first of the burial services, and where we would be again the next day for the third and final burial service for the three children. I don't remember much about the cemetery service except when it came time for the final song. A friend of ours had arranged for someone she knew to bring a sound system to the cemetery so we could play the music. The song we had selected had already been a part of the funeral service music, but we wanted it to also be the last song we would ever play for Curtis. The song was "Forever Young" by Rod Stewart. As the music rose in the air, I remember sitting there in front of Curtis's casket, tears running down my cheeks, trying to sing along with Rod Stewart, as were many of the other people gathered around us. Over the years since that day, many people have told us that they think of Curtis whenever they hear that song. In my mind, that's a fitting, lasting tribute to our son.
When the song ended, the minister gave a last prayer, then spoke the words I'd been dreading to hear all day, "This concludes the services for Curtis here at the cemetery. The family invites you all to join them at the high school cafeteria for a time of fellowship. Thank you." That was it. Done. Concluded. Finished. Ended. Over. My son's time on this earth was now, once and for all, at an end. From now on he would exist only in people's memories, pictures and videos. People still wanted to greet and console us. My wife had already taken refuge back in the limo. I was torn between wanting to never leave my son (how could I let them put him into the ground forever?) and wanting to run away as fast as I could while screaming my lungs out in anguish. I knew I did not want to be present when Curtis's casket was
lowered into the ground. That part I could not bear to see. By now, I was convinced that my son was truly gone. I didn't need to wait for his casket to be lowered for me to believe that at last. The limo headed back to the high school where the reception awaited. I was still amazed that the administration at the high school had approved all of this for us: letting the band students out of class to perform at the funeral, providing a bus for them, allowing any students and staff out of class who wanted to attend the funeral, putting the message on the marquee, flying the flag at half-staff, opening up the cafeteria to us so that other students and staff who had not been able to attend the services could still have a chance to pay their respects. It was all so overwhelming to us and so very much appreciated. Our son had certainly had a profound impact on the lives of so many people. I would take a large measure of comfort from that truth in the days, weeks, months, and years ahead.
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