Mourning

The procession of police officers from around the state and around the country march proudly and solemnly through the streets downtown. The main roads are blocked off and I curse as I realize there’s nowhere to park and I’ll now be late for work. Then a wave of terrible guilt forces me to retract my curse. At the station, purple and black bunting has been hung carefully, the trucks are pulled outside, the crews standing in front of them as the procession passes by. A gesture of our sadness, our wish we could have done more, performed a miracle, saved his life. I miss the funeral on television as I am driving to the gravesite; we're there to represent the company, to show we care. As we wait at the cemetery, the fire department arrives and hangs an American flag from their tower truck. Marines prepare for the 21 gun salute and bugle taps. The procession arrives, and I hold my breath as the hearse and limos pass. The procession continues with what looks like the entire police force. I try to read the faces of the other officers there and find sadness, exhaustion, guilt. It seems they’re holding their wives and husbands a little tighter today. We stay outside of the cemetery, I can do without seeing most of it up close.
The strains of bag pipes fill the air and I look at the black band over my paramedic badge. I think of a person I didn’t know, that I’ll never know. A person who would have protected me from harm, gone into a situation while I looked out for number one, a person who would have kept me safe. Safe without question.

For him, I can only pray. Pray for his family to have strength, pray for his sacrifice, pray for this senseless world, and pray for those who continue to keep our scenes safe, or streets safe, those who put our minds at ease. It's not enough to say, but thank you. Thank you.

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