The Winds Carry The Soul

The warm autumn breeze caresses my skin as I step out from the confines of the car and onto the rough grey pavement below.  Tenderly, I set my foot upon the curb, my feet sinking ever so slightly into the plush green grass carpeting the land around us.  My first step towards discovering a piece of my very being, of which has been absent for sixteen years.  Sixteen years spent searching for a truth that has been long hidden.  Long forgotten.

I follow in the footsteps of my grandfather, uncertain of my path, yet so sure of my destination.  As if the very land itself feels my presence.

As if it has been waiting for this very time to come.

The sun is beginning to set over the tops of the pine trees, settling itself within their branches and bathing the world in strands of gold.  The wind runs swiftly over the hills as I wander on, whipping my hair against my face and making the green needles chatter overhead.  Not a voice can be heard, save for that of the world around us.  The one who speaks for the forever silent.

As I reach the top of the gentle slope, my grandfather comes to a stop, gazing downwards towards the earth.  I follow his eyes to a stone resting on the ground before his feet.  "Peter Charles Tryon  1982-2000"

I wait, expecting the familiar tendrils of despair to grip my heart, but they never come.  Here, rests my father.  Never once able to attend one of my concerts in choir.  Never once able to see me off on my first day of school, or be there for me on my last.  Never once able to give me a word of guidance when I find myself lost in the endless bounds of life.  Every milestone, every moment since that day many years ago, has been stolen from us both.

I take a deep breath in, and release my hold, letting my breath mingle with the breeze as it sweeps out over the silent graves of those long fallen.  It blows as sure as the realization that rings in my heart.  A truth that most push back into the dark recesses of their minds where they store their memories and their grief.

Had he not left us, this moment would have never come.  I would not be the person I am today, had my father chosen another path.  He chose to fight for his country, for his family, but no one can fight the cold, lurking shadow of Death.

I turn slowly, facing the setting sun as it climbs beneath the horizon.  I may not have found the truth that I seek, but in this quiet place I have found something far more precious.

In these last dying hours of light, as the sun comes to rest and day begins to fall into night, I find the true value in what is in this life, and what has come to be.