Taps.

My grandfather died when I was a sophomore in high school.

I remember the weekend specifically, especially because I had bought a ticket for KoRn the following night, and obviously, I couldn't go.

(Don't judge me, KoRn was cool then. Kinda.)

Anyhoodle.

I didn't care about missing the concert, of course. What bothered me is that I couldn't cry. For some reason, I felt like he died a long time ago, and so when it actually happened, I was numb.

He'd been sick for so long, I hadn't even seen him in months because my mom wanted to spare me his last frail weeks. She said he wasn't the same, that he wouldn't recognize me. I was happy to stay away.

A cop out, maybe, but at fifteen, when most of the memories you have of your grandfather consist of an oxygen system and an easy chair, anything worse might've been more than I could take.

So we went to my grandmother's house (funny how I always thought of it as her house, even when he was in residence), and waited. Waited for people to come through the doors, speaking in hushed voices and bearing covered dishes. We waited for the arrangements to be made. We waited to say goodbye.

My uncle, who at only 15 years my senior, was more like a brother, waited with me. He was the only one. Everyone else was busy, a blurring motion around the house, far removed from my self-absorbed fifteen-year-old thoughts.

"It's okay to cry, you know," he said.

"I know. I can't, though. I just feel sick." I'd been throwing up for two days. Since we arrived.

"I haven't cried either. I want to, but..."

I wasn't surprised. In his life, they'd never gotten along. Oil and water, my grandmother said. Still, I could hear the pain in his voice. He felt like it was too late to make amends. We both had regrets. Different, yet palpable. They hung in the air along with the overwhelming scent of well-meaning flowers.

My grandfather was a man who imparted a few important pearls of wisdom to me, and embodied old country at it's most stubborn.

He was the man who made me run laps around the front lawn at nine, when my summer visit coincided with a chubby stage.

He would only wear cotton-poly blends, and loved Mocha Mix.

He taught me that one man's trash is another man's treasure, as he would spend hours in his garage refinishing golf clubs scrounged from unsuspecting Swap-Meet sellers, then sell the finished sets for five times the purchase price.

He wouldn't use paper plates, and let his grasp on the Italian language slide, agreeing with his parents that in America, they would speak English.

He loved television, good food, and electric razors, and it would've been his dearest wish come true if one of his children or grandchildren someday joined the Army.

(I wasn't about to be that wish-granter, though. Can you imagine <---- all this ----> in the Army? I don't think so. Can't imagine you get many points for organizing your makeup or being an expert napper.)

At his funeral, they handed my grandmother the flag that had draped over his coffin. He served in WWII and Korea, proudly, without regret. He moved his family around the country, overseas and back, anytime he was asked.

He knew that freedom was not free.

At his funeral, the music played, and the rifles fired. Upon hearing those shots, I was finally able to cry.

I would like to take this time to thank each and every member of the Armed Forces, and their families, for the extreme sacrifices they make every day. This country owes you a debt of gratitude.