The weekend passed rife with sadness, but with a sense of returning to normality. While camping, my sister Lacey said the plane carrying our cousin would arrive on Wednesday, and that we "should" be there to meet it. Monday, as I returned to work and passed the Southwest Exit, John Ulett, of the k-hits "Showgram" mentioned Riley during the news, and I remembered that things wouldn't be normal for awhile.
Wednesday rolled around, and my mom said that only immediate family would go to the tarmac, but that my sister and I should meet her and my dad in Eureka that evening (Mom & Dad are Riley's godparents). My sister and I decided to meet at the Galleria after work, facing the daunting task of "funeral-wear," and wait for the word to head to Eureka, where we figured we would grab some dinner.
We found lovely black dresses, and were trying on shoes when my mom called, and calmly informed us that the procession was on its way down Hwy 109 to a funeral home in Eureka, and my sister and I would need to get there before them, as no one would be admitted after they arrived. Miles away down Hwy 40 (that I-64 outside of Missouri), we fled the shoe store, ran to the opposite end of the mall to Lacey's car (and her in heels, God love 'er). Lacey is much better at "driving under pressure" than I. The journey began.
We maintained mobile contact with Mom, and knew that it would be close. On our side was the procession's speed of 40mph (ours averaged about 80) and, we like to think, Riley. "He won't let us miss this," we told each other, as I popped Xanax and Lacey gave the finger to ladies in minivans, one in the left-hand lane cruising at about 50 mph (speed limit 55), and one in the next lane over, boxing us in. We made it to the Hwy 109 exit ahead of the procession. A cliff right at the exit displayed a HUGE American flag, while the QuikTrip across the road had "We Honor Cpl. Riley Baker" on its sign usually reserved for advertising special prices on Bud Light. We managed to find a parking place on the southern end of Central Ave in Eureka, MO.
The funeral home was on the northern end of Central, up the hill and across the railroad tracks. As we hiked, I kept my arm around Lacey, who had begun sniffling. I don't remember exactly how long our trek was, only that the entire road was lined with hundreds of people, some with America flags, some bearing signs that read "God Bless Riley & Family," one man even had a live bald eagle perched on his shoulder. That is when the tears sprung to my eyes. Riley's entire hometown had turned up to await and honor his arrival home.
The procession arrived, led by fire trucks and police cars. The crowd, which had been buzzing as crowds do, fell silent. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. The veterans and police officers across the street from us were saluting. I just watched, held Lacey, and cried.
The rest kind of blurs. Riley was brought into the funeral home by fellow Marines. There was a short prayer, then the Marines led us outside where the flag would be removed and kept to presented to Aunt Kate at the funeral. One soldier raised a new flag, then lowered it to half mast. All the while the crowd of townspeople stood, watched, and were silent.
Back inside, more prayers and hugs. I hadn't seen Riley's father, Uncle Grier, for probably about 15 years. He and my Aunt Kate divorced long ago, but he's still Uncle Grier, especially now. He is my cousin's father. We then learned that he and Riley had a plan, in case something like this were to befall him. Riley wanted Grier to bring him to his house before he was laid to rest. We were invited to Grier's, but decided instead to grab dinner, as my Uncle Bert's daughter Casey, age 8, had been such a good girl all day, but was exhausted and hungry. I realized then that Casey is not only Uncle Bert's daughter, but my cousin. So ironic through this ordeal, that I lost a cousin, and, in effect, gained a cousin.
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