I would like to share something with you that I experienced while in Washington, DC for Police Memorial Week. I was there with my Police Emerald Society of Tidewater Honor Guard, and we had just completed the Emerald Society march with many other police pipe and drum units from all over the nation. Several officers from my old department - Chesapeake, VA Police Dept. - were there, and I asked them to join me at the place on the wall where my old friend and partner's name is engraved. None of those present had been on the job long enough to have worked with John H. Cherry, End of Watch 9/27/82. So, we stood at Panel 53E as I pointed to his name in Line 18 and introduced them to John.

I shared the details of his life with them and told them what I felt John would want them to remember about how he died. They then left, and I sat and visited with John's memory as I had done during several other such weeks. As I sat and reminisced about John, I silently wondered why I had never been able to cry about his loss. Having worked as a critical incident stress debriefer, I knew the importance of tears, and the healing effect of such closure. Still, I had never cried for John or his family and friends - or for our losing him so violently and suddenly. As I sat opposite John's engraving, two pipers from the recently ended parade walked past. Almost before I knew I was speaking, I had asked them to play a bit of Amazing Grace for John. They asked how I knew him, and I explained that he and I had worked together for two years, and that he had been killed in the line of duty by a deranged woman with a knife. They motioned for other members of their unit, and before I knew it, I was hearing Amazing Grace played wonderfully by their entire pipe and drum corps. They played in a triple refrain, with each of three elements being played closely together like I had often heard Taps played at military and police funerals. The music was beautifully breath taking, and I suddenly found myself letting go of twenty-one years of tears that I had been holding for John. When I looked into those folks' eyes to thank them, many were sharing in my tears and then I noticed that most of the crowd surrounding us was also crying. I thought to myself, and then expressed to John who had died almost ten years before the wall was built, "Here is the send-off we have owed you for so long, Buddy!" As the pipers and drummers left, I sat silently and sobbed almost uncontrollably for a short while. As I sat there with my grief an officer walked up to me, touched my shoulder and then gave me a hug. Not a word was uttered between us, but we both heard ourselves talking to a brother - one giving solace and understanding to the other's loss - both praying that neither would ever have to experience such a loss in the future.

That, Brothers and Sisters, is the essence of National Police Memorial Week.

This story was posted on the Personal Tributes section of the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Web site after Police Week.

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