Anticipation built as my brother's shift completed his race with dignity, drive and the weight of his loving memory. We wore "Team Carlos" shirts. And adorned them with invisible badges of support and a strong wanting to act as though Charley were ACTUALLY there. His brothers wore his turnouts and if you didn't look directly at their faces and only the gear where his jacket reads "LOPEZ", you could almost see Charley sweating and gritting his teeth and fiercely devouring oxygen. It was a sight to see- a quick five minutes of what any firefighter endures in the line of duty (minus the real-life threat of danger, lol, of course). A celebratory thirty minutes of cheer, pride and soak-faced tears served as comfort in the arms of peace and tranquility. Big sigh. Many big sighs. Many "I'm okay right now" assertions. I found myself to be happy in between the anger and envy of accepting his loss.
And damn am I proud. Geezus, am I proud of him <3
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