Pyre

We gather on the hill,
A sea of black to watch the fire burn,
To watch the beginning all the way to the end.
He had been a good man.
And had taught me many things,
About life and living and finding joy in the smallest of things.
I loved him.
The fire starts,
Small,
A spark amidst the kindling that glimmers only faintly,
But slowly it grows.
Little crackles,
Small cries at the beginning,
But the glimmer grows,
A flicker,
A light,
A flame that roars up over the wooden construct.
The military men salute,
The sea begins to flow,
The fire roars and snaps and rises high.
I watch dry-eyed,
I cannot cry outside,
Too many memories for tears to fall.
Sparks fly high,
Fireworks,
Mortar rounds,
Shining with life and energy,
But soon the flames do not reach as high as they once did.
They have begun to retreat,
Shrinking,
Slowly shrinking back towards their base now blackened from their heat.
The supports are beginning to fail
Decaying with their time of use,
But the fire is still bright even as it shrinks.
The flame does not simply die,
It does not wink out,
It shrinks but does not fade.
Eventually the flame is gone,
Though the glow of embers remain,
Shining like jewels upon the pyre of a great man.
I stand,
And walk to the podium,
To look out over the sea and military men so I may say my piece.
My words may be slightly choked,
For the memories still flow,
But I say it all,
And as I finish I turn towards the pyre and bow my head,
My last words directed to the gems of light amidst the black.
He had done so much for me in the past,
Taught me so much that there is to know,
And there are only two things I can say.
“Thank you, grandfather.  I love you.”