"Goodbye Amie . . ."
By Larry Sanchez


     The man and woman, their hands joined to form a nesting place, gently cradled
the white dove that had been their daughter's beloved pet. Holding it, with great
tenderness, they lovingly stroked the head and folded wings of the bird, as though it
were the very heart of the child  they had lost. Then, walking slowly so as not to disturb
the bird, they moved  a little away from the assembled crowd of mourners, until they
were out from under the large, green tent. Above them stretched the open immensity of
the heavens, enveloped in a cloudless, sunny sky of brilliant blue, a blue not unlike that
which had been the color of their daughter's eyes.   Pausing briefly, as though in final
resignation to present reality, the couple, as one, opened their hands and lifted the bird
towards the sky. Freed of impediment, the dove spread its wings and climbed into the
wind. As one, the man and woman could be heard to say, "Bye, Amie." Faces
contorted in unspeakable anguish, the couple buried their faces in each other's shoulder
and emptied their hearts of accumulated grief.  
     With the other mourners, I watched, awestruck, as the solitary white dove flitted
about the azure sky. The sounds of sobbing, emanating from all around me, the sight of
a hundred or more tear-streaked faces, confirmed that the import of the moment had not
been lost on those in attendance. In a single brief instant of final surrender to that
ultimate will which permeates and drives the whole of the universe, this family had
selflessly, lovingly sent the soul, the indomitable spirit of their deceased daughter flying
back to the source of its creation, flying back on the wings of a dove.
     For long moments afterward they all milled about, no one wanting to leave just
yet. There were hugs and kisses to be exchanged and shared and there were tears, oh so
many tears, yet to be shed.   
     And I, I who was not related to the one who had passed, who had not even met
her, touched her hand, looked into her eyes, I slowly walked about, on the periphery on
the crowd and recollected. I recalled a scene, of about nine years hence, when I had
stood, just another observer amid another crowd of strangers. It had been a celebration
of Louisiana music and all had been good, but not sensational, not, that is, until a little
girl, of about twelve, had mounted the stage and, with a voice far too big, too wonderful
for one so young and tiny, had blown us all away! Who was this child? Who was this
little girl who sang the songs of Hank and Patsy as though she had known them, as
though she had known their heartaches, their all consuming love of country music?  
Who was she?
     "I think her name's Amie Comeaux," someone around me answered. "I saw her
sing the national anthem at a Saint's game in the Superdome."
     Since I'm not a football fan, I had missed her performance, perhaps nationally
broadcast.  But here she was, in the flesh, singing her heart out and, God be praised, I
was blessed with being able to see her in person. It isn't often in one's life that you have
the honor of standing in the presence of genius, of something truly phenomenal,
something exceedingly special that you know was carefully fashioned by the hand of
God and sent, as a special gift, to inspire, to move the hearts of all that share in its
brilliance, to praise the God of creation.   
     And, indeed, my cynical heart was moved that day. "Thank you, Jesus. Thank you,
Jesus." I muttered over and over, as tears of gratitude and joy filled my eyes. That
afternoon, as I wept, unashamed,  at the miracle that I was being allowed to share in, I
knew that that little girl would go far and that she would touch many a heart and be a
source of great pride to the ordinary folk from whom she had been raised.
Now, at the culmination of what had, at once been the most wonderfully poignant yet the
most emotionally wrenching funeral service I had ever experienced, I stood, with all the
others who mourned the loss of one so very young and talented and loving, and gazed
into the gorgeous sky and thanked God for having sent her to us. Joining the others
who, reluctantly, were leaving the gravesite, I mouthed the words, "Bye, Amie" and
made my own way home.