Too much of a good thing?

There was a bite in the air as we arrived at the Cemetery.  I parked graveside and opened up the trunk to set up a tailgate coffee station because the service is graveside and my dad never turned down a cup of coffee. 

The honour guard arrive and I know instantly asking for retirees is the right choice. They walk me through what will happen and I nod. I'm as composed as I can be with the adrenaline coursing through my body.  I feel slightly nauseous, rattled with adrenaline and anxiety.  Sleep has been a challenge the last few weeks, coming in fits and starts.  

15 minutes later, the final echoing report of the 21-gun salute is fading and I am handed a folded flag and still-warm spent cartridges.  'Can I keep one,' my daughter asks? 

I sigh. 'Of course.'

'And me! And me!'

We make our way to the VFW, where Marian, the manager of 30 years looks the same but different. I remember the last time I saw her, 20 years before at my grandfather's commemoration. The club still smells the same: stale beer, laughter, salty stories. I sigh, bring in coffee and my make-shift sign-in book.  The next day, a major adrenaline crash: I can barely move but force the legs out of bed. I force myself through the day and it gets easier, until I can find a cupboard to curl myself up small and safe in. 

By Sunday, we make our way to California and by Monday, we are embracing the experience of the 'Happiest Place on Earth,' which is all about pre-booking your park but not so very much about social distancing or masks. A mandate gets lifted and it's as though switch has been flicked off.

I had forgotten that blocks in LA stretch on front of you without a seeming end, that the sun is glorious and unrelenting. My youngest buries his head into my side. 'I'm not made for this much sunshine. Can we go home now?'