Racing for the light

Being grown is sometimes tough. You are constantly having to do and say things that you would rather not. It's like watching football on television, it looks a lot easier than it really is, and you don't feel the pain of the injuries. A facade. When I was a teenager I couldn't wait to grow up and enjoy the privilege, the reward for being a child. I raced for the light, ready to circle the glow with the rest of the team.

But you get to enjoy the fruits of your own labor. You receive full credit for your accomplishments and make your family proud. You get to hold babies that look just like you and create a new "one" out of a mixed and random bag. You are a powerful planner and creator. A farmer. But you also have to say goodbye to things you love. You hold the hand of your newest and most prized possession as you say good bye to another that raced for the flame by your side. Someone that pointed you in it's direction and held your hand along the way.

Saying good bye is tough. The one boarding the plane has a much easier time than the one waving at it as it leaves the ground. The leaver and the left. One heading for adventure and the other left to hold down the fort. The fort minus one. As I walk down the concrete pier with the remains of my brother in a plastic box, a label with his full and rarely used full name fixed to the lid, holding the hand of another that I can't live without, I'm being left. His ashes will stay here alone and I will go home, but I'm not the leaver. I am being left.

The family has all gathered to see him off, but really he is already gone. This is just an official good bye, a going away party. But when this party is over and the tail lights are no longer visible it will sink in. Life will be different and time will be my enemy. We all gather around the wooden railing and look down at the water. The dark, swirling current below us races around the oyster encrusted pilings toward the open ocean. Our eyes follow the path and we all look together at the horizon. The destination. A solitary and wide open space for such a small box.

The time has come and we open the container. A living, breathing being reduced to ashes. The remnants of the fire. We are to release him to the depths that as a little boy I pulled him back from. From grasping his collar when he was to close to the edge to pushing him over the side in just thirty eight years. His lifetime. We all hold our breath as the ashes float toward the water. There is little splash as the dark flakes mix with the murky water. But as the ashes sink in the salty bath they began to sparkle. Gold and silver flecks shimmering like a school of fish. The tail of a comet disappearing as it races toward the horizon. The fire dying.

The sparkle in the water was almost too much for us to handle. None of really knew what to expect as we released the ashes, but this was a surprise. We cried and laughed and hugged one another as a small crowd gathered around us. "Look" someone said, pointing to the water below us. "A baby dolphin." The family released it's grip on one another and looked over the side. A young dolphin about two feet long had come to the surface below us. The ashes were gone, but he was circling in the same location. He would disappear for a few seconds then surface again below us. Was he showing off? A little boy running down the sidewalk in his brand new shoes.

We watched him for a few minutes, holding our breath when he sounded and cheering when he surfaced, wondering what this meant and thankful at the same time for his display. The last time he surfaced he was several feet away from the pier. As he rose to the surface he was accompanied by another larger dolphin. A parent. They dove together and seconds later rose together. A pair of dancers that would practice this step for years to come. She led him east, away from the structure toward the open ocean, with their dark backs shining in the sun. Racing for the light.