My Friend is Not of This World

My friend is not of this world. Yet he lives inside me until this very day. We are kept apart like the day and night. We have journeyed to a special place, a place like no other. A place of happiness.

No single moment can describe Jeff when he walked this Earth. He was a colorful character, always good natured and fun to be around. At thirty-three years of age, he had life's promises ahead of him. "Jethro," as everyone called him, was a stocky six feet tall, sandy blonde with a hairstyle that cried out for a comb. Being in the general contracting business, he usually dressed as if her were ready to work. After all, any project that he attempted would require him to get dirty, much like a child playing outside. The Marlboro cigarette in his mouth was his trademark.

Jethro had plans for himself. He envisioned having a business of his own. It would be called "Jeff's Contracting Services, Incorporated." Discussing his future business ventures, he would always mention that he was ready to settle down with "the right girl."

Only three years older than me, he would give me plenty of advice.

"Donato," as only Jethro could address me, "life is great, enjoy it."

"Not sure about that" would be my response. I didn't give it much thought. I was young and thought myself to be invincible.

"Trust me, it is" he said shaking his head up and down in an affirmative way.

We were brothers, not by blood, but by courage, with a mutual respect and an unspoken trust that could not be broken. The scene of the red fire trucks made us feel at home. The firehouse was a place Jethro could brainstorm and seek opinions from other members. He would take every opinion, good or bad, into consideration. I would carefully observe his every reaction to a suggestion, especially if it seemed it was not in his favor. Jethro would smile and scribble notes on a little yellow pad he always carried with him.

Jethro's natural born gift was entertaining, especially to the younger crowd. Every year, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, he would don on a Santa suit and distribute candy canes from the old red antique fire engine. His only stipulation was that I volunteer to be his "elf." I knew that I looked silly. Every time he glanced at me, there was uncontrollable laughter. Perhaps it was because the green and red outfit was small on me or the fact I could hardly move in it.

"Don't worry," Jethro would say, "You look cute wrapped up like that."

Together we brought the sweetness of Christmas to little children in our fire district. I guided his "sleigh" through the streets as "Santa" kept a close lookout for the spirit of the season. Even the adults enjoyed Santa's presence. For laughs, he would have them sit on his lap and inquire if they had been good. The pressure was off the children momentarily as Jethro gave a wink.

No "thank you's" were necessary for Jethro; to see a a smile on a child's face was compensation enough.

"Smiles are all I ask for," he would say as a happy grin crept up on his face. He had many traits that made him unique. To observe him gave me a sense of pride. I was proud to call him my friend. A bond that was would last forever. We had always talked about our own children being friends. It was perfect.

Jethro's goal in life was to be in a position of assisting, whether it was a rescue, a fire, or simply giving directions to a lost motorist. He would go so far as to jump into his compact white Ford Taurus and have the driver follow him until the destination point. On his return, satisfaction was written all over his face. He had helped one more person.

Playing the part of peacekeeper was in his genes. Jethro was the "sheriff" of the fire station. A good joke would defuse a bad situation among the other "brothers>" The two enemies would conceded defeat and a round of beers at the Vets Club was in order.

This is not to say that he was perfect. He was human and made mistakes. What he did for others, he could not do for himself. On many occasions Jethro would drink himself into oblivion. Drunk or not, he was still respectful of others.

Drinking and smoking eventually caught up with him. Within a two month period, the hospital would become home to this charismatic young man. On a visit, the treating physician gave me the prognosis: incurable cancer. A feeling of fear swept over me like an ocean wave that I could not get out from under.

"Donato," a familiar voice crackled from the room behind me.

As I entered the cherry wood room, I could see by the number of get well cards that were lined up like soldiers, that many friends had come to see him. I brought nothing except guilt. The room was semi dark and the impression I received was that the linen had not been changed recently. This made no difference to me. For the first time I began to see things from a different perspective. In the back of my mind I wanted a miracle. All I could offer him was compassion and a belief this was a chapter of his life that had to be read. I wanted to believe the next chapter would be much different.

Visibly weak, Jethro managed to produce a smile, a smile unique only to him. He was pale and most of his sandy hair had fallen out from chemotherapy treatments. His blue eyes fought to stay open. My brother was unable to communicate with me. I felt alone. No longer was everything perfect and in order. All I could hear was the chatter of the nurses in the corridor outside his room. It was late into the evening and I looked outside the window and saw the sun had retired for the day. I took this as a cue to let him rest.

"Brother Jethro," I whispered as I held his hand ever so fragile, "I'll see you in the morning and remember, He's looking out for you" as I looked up. As I left, I tried to convince myself it was a dream and that tomorrow things would be shiny again like the sunrise.

Twelve hours later brought heart aching news of his passing. I was devastated. I was now in a different place.

Jethro received the honor of a firefighter's funeral. I volunteered to be one of two Honor Guards during the services. Standing at attention for over two hours , tears streamed down my face as I observed the reactions of other attendees. Hundreds of firefighters and police officers attended the funeral procession in dress blues, each wearing a black band across their badges to indicate a fallen brother. Jethro was escorted to to the cemetery aboard the old red antique fire truck he loved so much.

As I stood at attention once again besides Jethro's final resting place, prayers were offered by the chaplain. Memories came to me like an album book. He had touched each person in his own way. Saying good bye proved difficult and everyone, including myself, cried openly. My brother had accomplished his mission.

Looking towards the heavens, I saw a single white cloud in the distance. Jethro was looking over us.

I prayed in a soft voice, "God, watch over my brother, he will be missed."

The American flag that draped his casket was folded into a military triangle by the fire department chief and assistant chief. It was then presented to Jethro's family. As the trumpet played softly atop the grassy hill overlooking the cemetery, the fire commissioner gave the order:

"Salute."

Everyone in uniform stood at attention as a wave of white gloves were raised to our heads to salute our fallen brother. After a few moments, the fire commissioner rescinded the order. Before leaving, I noticed the air was chilly. I placed a flower on Jethro's casket and wiped my tears as I bade him farewell. I felt empty. The life that I had known with him appeared to be over. In reality I came to a realization that we had made a journey and our friendship has transcended heaven and Earth. In my heart, he will always be a friend, teacher and my brother.