Burying Joe

We buried my husband's great uncle today. The same man who's home I searched for a will.
I met the man only once, but nonetheless cried. The graveside service was short and simple. No tears.
A french horn played Taps. Still no tears. The flag was folded, and my eyes remained dry. But then the officer began to present the flag to Joe's nephew, to whom he'd left everything. The nephew quickly directed them toward Jasen's grandfather, Joe's only living sibling, and presented the 85-year-old with the flag of his youngest brother.
A single tear slid from his eye, and I started to cry. He hadn't expected the flag, and I hadn't expected him to shed a tear. Buddy (Jasen's grandfather) stood after the service, bowed his head and placed his right hand on the casket. I don't know what he said, and it didn't matter. My throat was tight and the tears welled on the lower rims of my sunglasses.
He turned around, and said to his granddaughter that he was all alone; that he was the last of his siblings, and began to walk away from the grave site. He used the casket to steady himself on the uneven ground and clutched the folded flag to his chest. That was pretty much the end of my mascara.

I couldn't help but think of my maternal grandfather's funeral. He passed away almost 10 years ago, while I was a sophomore at Tech.
For as long as I can remember, grandad was dying. His first surgery cut out his prostate and bladder when my mom was pregnant. His chest looked like someone gutted him with a dull fillet knife and stitched him back together with shoe laces.
He fought that cancer for another 20 years. Even at age 80, they continued the surgeries, removing most of his stomach and intestines. Doctors placed him in a drug-induced coma because he became combative with the doctors and nurses. That lasted for almost two months when they began to slowly bring him to consciousness.
The day he died, he asked to see his wife, my Granny, who was flirting with the young doctors in the hallway. They helped him to a wheelchair, and pushed him next to her. He said he wanted a kiss, and she obliged. And then he closed his eyes and took his last breath.
I know it sounds like something out of a romance novel, but that's the story my mom told me, as told to her by my Granny. Completely true or not, it doesn't matter to me. What matters is the thought. That we all need one last kiss from our love before leaving.
At first I didn't want to make the trip to Arlington for his funeral. I'm glad I did.
I still don't think I understand the honor that comes with an Arlington funeral. His grave is within walking distance of the Pentagon, and I know he's loving that, the political buff he was. I still remember my Granny, frail and thin from his long stay in the Naval hospital. For the first time in my life, I realized I was taller than her. She looked so tiny, taking that flag from the officer.
I didn't cry until the horn played Taps, and they began the 21-gun salute. With each ear-piercing shot, his death became more real. The smoke cleared from the gun barrels, and it was over. He was gone.
I don't deal with death well. I don't understand it, I can't rationalize it, and my faith isn't strong enough to lean on. I'm hoping a better understanding and acceptance comes with age.
People who are left suddenly alone seem so small, no matter what their stature. They've been beaten and battered. They've had their spirit broken, and are left to redefine their lives.
I left the funeral today crying not just for Joe and Buddy, but for everyone in my life I've lost, and everyone in my life I could loose.