I walked up the hill to the grave yard this morning to pay my respects to Tyrel, a friend who took his own life this past winter. I sat by a grave which doesn’t even have a headstone, just a small plaque, thought things over for a good long while, and played “Lord Lovat’s Lament.”
“T” was in the army, where he earned a reputation for the go-to mechanic in his unit, and fought fires for the USFS, where he earned a reputation for courage. He was one of the “kids” who accompanied me to Haiti last summer to assist in famine-relief efforts. He was a rock–repairing vehicles in the smothering heat and humidity, loving the kids, digging ditches, giving away his lunch, never losing his cool, never complaining, always with a smile and a well-timed random dumb joke.
No one knows why he killed himself.
I sat by his grave, disturbed by the sound of engines and tires scaping on gravel–is it too much work to actually walk to a loved one’s grave side, smell the apple trees, and listen to the meadowlarks? I guess everyone is in a hurry to get on their way, even here in Wyoming. It seemed like a time for silence, and there was just too much noise. sigh…
T loved listening to the whistle. He even tried to learn how to play it once, but mostly he loved listening. He’d drop by my place–he had an uncanny gift for showing up at suppertime–just to hang out and talk things over. He loved the whistle and the highland pipes.
So I paid my respects the only way I knew how, with a sad Scottish tune he loved. The sound couldn’t carry over all the car engines, but I played, and it was enough.
