I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
I was buried on a Sunday afternoon, on a clear, summer day in Seattle. There was a hint of juniper and whiskey in the air, although from what source, I couldn't quite place. I had remembered saying, years ago, that I didn't know how to live in a world in which my father didn't. Ever since then I had been searching for magnetic north without the aid of a compass. I would never blame my mistakes on his absence; nor would his presence have lessened my guilt, or absolved me of my numerous sins. But the thing was, I didn't know how to exist without him – at least now I don't have to.
In the old Celtic tradition, my mother placed a wooden platter on my chest, and poured into it a mixture of earth and salt. The former symbolizing the corruptibility of the body; the latter the incorruptibility of the soul. Her tears had long since stopped flowing, and a hardened look now rested in her eyes. But every atom within her body held the history of a people who had suffered through disease, famine, and persecution. Generations of women had endured tragic losses, and though that knowledge certainly didn't ease the sting, it at least solidified her will to one day find some semblance of peace. My mother was always smarter than she thought herself to be.
They say that grief is almost always for the mourner's loss. For Izzie, it was the combination of grief and guilt from feeling a sense of overwhelming relief at her own escape from death. Standing above my body, she's the image of Diana, statuesque and pale from her recent stint indoors, a scarf providing the only color to an out-of-place, drab façade. She's crying for the way we used to be, remembering the times when the only people we could confide in were each other. And she's forgetting that somewhere along the way, well before the accident, we had inadvertently severed that connection. It was nostalgia for a Camelot that was stronger in memory than it ever could be in physical reality. And it was guilt at once again being the one to live – the one to find love … the one who could experience joy.
I have regrets. How can anyone go through life without accumulating any? But we all get one chance to do something great. Maybe that's our chance for final atonement. It just so happened that mine came earlier than anticipated. Cristina always called me Bambi, but, truthfully, I had always considered myself more of a Charlie Brown. I finally got the chance to win the affections of the little red-haired girl. It worked, though the price was high.
I never got the chance to become a trauma surgeon. I never found the one person I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. I never had the kids I wanted to one day have, or the house in the hills overlooking the lake. But I had two great parents who loved me the best way they knew how. I had mentors who were willing to give me a second chance, and somehow saw potential in me that I never knew even existed. And I was a part of the team. For a few brief years, I lived, and learned, and lost with the best of them.
We few.
We happy few.
We band of brothers.
And that, at least, was something.