THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, March 24, 1996 TAG: 9603200060
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K3 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY KIM WADSWORTH, SPECIAL TO REAL LIFE
LENGTH: Medium: 56 lines
MY BROTHER and his jacket were buried today.
I know this seems like a peculiar pairing, but to my brother, his jacket was his significant other. Piles of photos stashed in drawers reveal their relationship. Motorcycle rallies. Dirt bike excursions. Cross-country sojourns. Church functions. Everyday moments. This weathered leather jacket was his worn-and-torn signature. His simple trademark.
It was a symbol of reverence for him, a symbol of remembrance for us.
I never learned how or when this jacket became a part of his world. I learned what it meant to him from friends and family. The faded brown tones only enhanced the jacket's beauty as it hung casually on the kneeling bench in front of his open coffin. This and his favorite belt buckle that read ``Proud to be American'' completed the still life of his last hours with us.
Throughout the evening wake, those who loved him filed past to pay their respects. Intermittently, a kneeling visitor would slip something into one of the pockets of the jacket. Notes, rings, momentos and souvenirs, a private shared last moment.
As I watched the procession, I realized the jacket had become a receptacle for things unsaid. It became a letterbox to his heaven, a way to say goodbye. At the viewing's end, the jacket was carefully nestled close to his body, a creature comfort for the next world.
My brother was only 43.
At the next morning's service, the minister said he had expected to give a eulogy for a man he did not know.
Then he recognized the leather jacket.
The minister's church was also the church my brother attended as a child. Two months ago, he attended an evening service there. The minister noticed his late arrival and, of course, the leather jacket.
My brother returned each Saturday evening to worship. He asked one evening if there was anything he could do to help with the restoration of the old church.
After the service, with the church closed for the evening, the minister passed by the old graveyard. He noticed my brother, on his knees. Moving closer, the minister watched as my brother re-erected several centuries-old tombstones. It was my brother's way of giving back something to the church.
That was the last time the minister saw my brother until the funeral service. Had the jacket not been hanging on the chair next to my brother, the minister would never have realized who he was. Had it not been hanging on the chair next to him, many of my brother's friends and loved ones would never have found the solace needed for their own closure.
When they buried my brother and his jacket, his pockets were full and he was taking it all with him.
It showed me how much style he always had. by CNB