The Cloud’s Veil

/ Joseph Marana

I wandered fruitlessly for how long, across the uneven grass and under the heat of the mid-day sun.  I couldn’t help but marvel at how warm it was for mid September, but despite the heat on my skin it wasn’t hot.  There was a steady breeze and I watched American and POW flags wave in the wind not too far away.  It was quiet.  And there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.  It reminded me of the first time we came to this spot, almost 10 years ago.  When we came to bury Papa.

I had a hard time waking up yesterday morning.  I looked at my phone for the umpteenth time, wanting to postpone the day but knowing that Jen would have to leave early.  Which meant I would have to be back with enough time to help get the kids ready for school before she and Hope headed out.  I started running almost immediately, as the cold splashed on my skin and seemed to nip at my heels.  My runs have been getting stronger, slightly faster.  And the cool brisk mornings have been a preview of the biting chills that lay in the months ahead.  Still, in the darkness I spotted my new companion Sirius in the sky and began the journey through the hills of Section 5.  Like many mornings, I prayed the rosary as my heart beat in my ears and my breath stretched through my chest.

I felt sad.  And I thought about William and our time in Lourdes.  I missed them, the men and women, Knights and Dames and daughters and sons of the Order that were there for us.  I thought about Ronnie and Alex, and that first afternoon mass in the Rosary Chapel.  Following Jen and William in their cart we entered the chapel with Ronnie and Alex by our side.  It was packed, and our clump of Red Team was reduced to a trickle trying to thread our way through the crowded aisle.  It was the first time I saw a sea of black and white and red of the Order’s uniformed colors.  The bustle of sounds, and excitement of greetings surrounded us.  I was amazed and in awe, and as the carts found their spots to park I was offered a seat on the front handle, as a bench.  I would later sit on the carts like this quite frequently but that afternoon was the first time, and it felt awkward.  I spotted Ronnie’s face through the crowd and she motioned to sit next to her and Alex in the pews.  I could barely see them, his face and her hair.  I was behind them but off to the side.  I heard William cough, and maybe gag so I looked up and toward them.  Ronnie noticed.  But I was on alert enough from our travels and my own preparations, still unsettled in this new place with new faces.  I longed to be physically with them.  And then I heard the singing.  It sounded sad, but hopeful.

Even though the rain hides the stars,
Even though the mist swirls the hills,
Even when the dark clouds veil the sky,
You are by my side.

Even when the sun shall fall in sleep,
Even when at dawn the sky shall weep,
Even in the night when storms shall rise,
You are by my side. You are by my side.

My eyes welled up in tears and the warm golden interior, filled with the Order’s colors blurred.  I kept my head up to keep the tears from dropping or streaming down my cheeks.  Thad had warned me, there would be lots of tears but I refused in that moment to let it overcome me so soon, so early in our trip.

I thought of it in the dark, up the hills as I ran.  The Cloud’s Veil.  I missed Ronnie and how motherly and tenderly and compassionately she cared for us.  I missed how special that time and place was.  And feared that the experience would be unique, secluded to my memory only.When I came back, still out of breath and sweaty I found the song on iTunes and downloaded it.  I listened to it after the boys went off to school.  It was on repeat while I showered.  I played it on my way to the range and sat in the parking lot soaking it in before I went inside.  I kept it on repeat as I folded clothes in the afternoon.  In musical contemplation.  In reflection and thought.

Jen called after Matthew had come home.  William was already in bed, showered and clean after sharing how uncomfortable he had been when he got home from school.  Kind of like now, as I write this.  When Jen told me that Martie had gotten us tickets to the Basilica mass, and was trying to get us into the White House I could barely respond to her excitement.  I was overwhelmed, and once again did not want to be overcome with emotion and crying face (or crying voice).  The events of the day, visiting Papa and listening to the song, thinking of our trip.  It all came together.
This morning, as I finished my rosary once again on the hills in the neighborhood formerly known to us as “Section 5” I pictured Martie, and Harry and expressed in my thoughts and prayer how grateful I was to them and for the infinite abundance of generosity that God has shown us, through our son.
But as I stood there yesterday, I felt it suddenly.  I didn’t at first, coming upon the still unmarked patch of grass where they lay.  There is still no gravestone despite all the years.  Just a patch of grass.  After wandering and searching, down the aisles and up the columns it was the only logical space.  I was frustrated at the fact that there was nothing there.  It was distracting.  And I only wanted to visit.  It was the first time since we had moved here, three years ago.  Again, I feared and avoided the emotion that I knew would come.  And then it did.  I barely spoke when I saw him in my mind, through my memory.  The aging man, coming up but instead of shaking my hand, embracing me.  Like when I was a child.  With the sound he used to make “choh choh choch”.  I could see his plaid flannel collar and could almost smell his scent.  It was just beyond the edge of my memory.  I hugged him and held him.  And I told him I missed him.  I said I was sorry for not visiting more often, both when he was still alive and since we have been back in town.  I broke down when I told him that Bri had moved back too, and that I would bring my brothers with me.  But I calmed when I told him that William, our William was doing fine, that he was OK.
I would read a Facebook post later in the day about how grateful a friend of mine is for adoptive families, those who come into our lives and adopt us, or whom we adopt as loved ones.  As those we care about and those that care for us.  I can’t articulate how deeply grateful I am both for Nana and Papa as our adoptive grandparents when we were kids.  And through the miles and years, with all of our experiences we have always been bestowed and blessed with those that love us regardless, unearned and without condition.  Amalia, Kim, Martie.  We love you all.

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