My son, Ryan, had a favorite shirt with a big yellow, smiley, “have a nice day,” face with a bullet through the forehead, printed on it. He wore the satirical tee shirt often.
On the day prior to the memorial services, Melody and I went to the Mausoleum that had prepared Ryan's remains by cremation. We were there to retrieve his dust, scarcely more than seven pounds of incarnation. Mass heaviness of morbidity had seriously overtaken us both, as with dour faces we walked from the dark solemnness of the occasion back out into the harsh glare of the summer's bright morning light.
Instantly, the irreverent, insect-like buzzing of a pesky single engine aircraft disturbed the silent, somber mood. Zooming across the immaculate blue sky the black board etching sound screeched through the calm. The sound was nastily irresistible.
Looking up, we squinted at this wretched invader, while, using his exhaust trails, the intrusive sky pilot began carving art forms into the air, “P...E....”
Abruptly changing direction, the aviator made a sharp left turn creating a huge “O,” then buzzed back into the upper half of the circle forming one short dash, then another, leaving a small space between the two marks.
The artist soared out away from the cloud ink, doubled back and completed the logo with a large, half-circle, smiling mouth. Seeming to imitate the sky art, our own mouths curled up at the corners as we watched the big screen spectacle.
The great smiley face hung in the air above us lightening our hearts, slowly distorting in the slight morning breeze as again the letters were being formed.
“P...E...” the plane wrote.
“Peace!” Melody, gasping in amazement, shouted. “He's writing "Peace," mom! It's Ryan! He's telling us he's okay!”
The sky writer continued his practice, shaping the next letters...“P...S...I,” PepsiTM.
We burst into laughter at our own synchronous expectations of miraculous messages coming from beyond.
This uplifting memory continues to bring a chuckle to my heart, and rich fodder to the criticisms of psychotherapists and cynics. Because, I reason, there are no coincidences, I think it was Ryan telling us he's okay! J
