This morning I’m so cold I’m shivering. I can’t be sure if it’s because of the frigid temperature or my nerves. Maybe both. I make my way deliberately to the front of the room. Take my place behind the podium. As I wait for the room to settle, my eyes rest on the American flag draped like a blanket, the wreaths of red, white and blue carnations bookending the casket. Dad’s final resting place. Feeling the prickle of tears, I bite down hard on my tongue. I’ve promised myself I will not cry during my speech. In lieu of a pastor, I’ve offered to facilitate the memorial service. Dad wasn’t a church goer. Every chair is filled, every available gap of space occupied by more than a hundred family members, and friends of dad. As the guests quiet and focus their eyes on me, I lean in to the microphone.

“We’re here today to honor and celebrate the life of my father, John Boyer.”

For the past few years, I’ve sat with dad three days a week watching re-runs of old westerns. Tipped back in his oversized recliner, his big fingers stabbing at the television remote, dad cracks jokes, poking fun at the commercials all targeted at the aging Boomer generation. At seventy-seven, living with Myasthenia gravis, Parkinson’s and dementia, dad is still very much the father I remember. His spark burns bright, and his memory of the important things remains intact. I savor the moments I have with him knowing fully they will not last forever.

“There will always be beginnings and there will always be endings.”

I question him about his childhood, his time in the navy during the Vietnam War and the many years he worked for the local aluminum smelter. I lean in trying to memorize the deep sound of his voice, the way he touches his forefinger to his nose, slides it down to his lip, and bounces his leg crossed over the other just before he dives into something juicy. At this stage, his illness’ may have stolen his sense of timeline but the details, the meat of his stories are present, and I savor every morsel. I wouldn’t trade these hours for anything.

“A row of soldiers, guns at their sides, hands raised to their brow in salute.”

As a young man, when on leave from the Navy, he bought groceries for his siblings burgeoning families. From early on he had a heart of compassion for those less fortunate and spent his first decade of retirement volunteering for the local food bank.

All eleven of dad’s siblings passed away before he did. He often reminded me that he was the last.

“Someday I’ll be gone, too,” He’d chuckle, whistle, and clap his hands, “And that’ll be all she wrote!” Despite his cheerful delivery, I never took this declaration well. Sensing my dismay, he would tack on these sage words, “Kiddo, that’s the way of the world. There will always be beginnings and there will always be endings but each day you’re gifted is a chance to begin again and make the best day ever.”

The sun is shining. The ground, thick with frost, crunches beneath my boots. A row of soldiers, guns at their sides, hands raised to their brow in salute, line the way as dad’s coffin is carried from hearse to graveside. I take my seat next to mom. I feel the intensity of her grief as she wraps her gloved fingers around mine and squeezes.

As the first shot of the three-volley salute rings out, I burst into audible tears. The finality of dad’s death hitting harder with each gunshot. Followed by the raw, unembellished tone of the bugle, stripped bare of anything but emotion. The final note fades into silence, leaving behind an emptiness that feels both heavy and sacred, as though time itself has paused to honor dad. I rise, walk to the microphone placed adjacent to the coffin, and take a deep breath. My words will be the final words spoken before dad is lowered into the ground for good.

“As a wise man often reminded me, there will always be beginnings and there will always be endings but each day we’re gifted is a chance to begin again. Let’s put his words into action and make each day better than our last.”