I dropped a friend off at the airport this afternoon, and there was a humongous line of motorcycles (like, 200 or more of them) with a police escort obviously lined up to go somewhere for a rally some sort. As I drove to my next appointment in Raleigh, on 540, every single solitary overpass was filled with stopped police cars fire trucks or any sort of vehicle with flashing lights. They all had their lights flashing with the affiliated personal standing on the bridge at attention, clearly waiting for the motorcycle brigade to come by.
I had no idea what was going on, so during my appointment (grief therapy....), I asked my facebook friends to figure it out for me. They did, while I was in being therapized. I read their google sleuthing in the parking lot of my therapist's office.
It was a funeral procession for a fallen Vietnam solider from Goldsboro, who was only found and brought home today, 50 years later. The tiny remains had been flown all the way from Vietnam to RDU that day and were being escorted 100 miles home to be buried.
I cried. And cried. And cried.
Then sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed.
Then the body breaking heaving tearless soundless horrible crying.
If you've suffered a catastrophic loss like mine, you know what this crying is like. And only if you have suffered a horrible loss will you will know. I never knew this type of crying existed until Chad died. I can describe it, but you will never ever know how horrible it is until it happens to you. The crying. The loss too, but man, that kind of crying is horrific too.
I don't recommend it.
I'm going to stop being curious.