Dad was every inch the soldier and proud of it. “He was a big, clumsy boy when he went into the Army,” my mother once told me. “When he came out he was a confident, good-looking man.” Even after he left the service Dad still talked about how he liked marching in military parades.
“There’s just something about the strong and steady rhythm that makes me feel good,” he always said.
When Dad got cancer, the memory of his military marches lifted his spirits. But in the end stage of Dad’s disease, I wished some miracle could make him feel good again. The whole family kept vigil by his bedside.
“You go get some rest,” my mom said late one night. “Come back in the morning.”
I drove home. Getting out of the car I heard a band playing: brass instruments, woodwinds, even strings. I looked around. The car radio was switched off. Who would be playing marching music at this time of night in my quiet residential neighborhood?
The band played for almost a minute. Then everything was quiet.
My aunt called in the wee hours of the morning. Dad was gone. But I knew a heavenly band was waiting to welcome their new recruit. Dad would feel better than good again.
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