Five years ago tonight the moon was waxing, nearly full. We vividly recall gazing upward, through teary eyes, pants wet from the damp grass as we sat, weeping in disbelief.
Perhaps two hours prior a young Brent Scrimshire had hardly been 30 minutes into his night shift as a police officer in Hot Springs when he made his last traffic stop and took his last breath. The husband, the father of two toddlers, the son, the brother, the uncle, was gunned down by a misguided youth who took flight from an officer of the law. The suspect — since sentenced to life in prison — had neither clue nor care whose lives would be shattered by an everlasting void left by his irreversible decision to pull a trigger.
In the fives years since, we’ve traveled hither and yon attending countless memorials honoring Brent. No words or ceremonies will bring him back or reverse the trauma, but they are immensely appreciated. Brent’s name and legacy will live on — his name is etched in a wall in our nation’s capital. The man who killed him will die in prison — his name already escapes us.
On Monday afternoon we stepped away from our editorial duties to attend the fifth memorial service honoring Brent Scrimshire’s legacy. We were among some four dozen other relatives, friends or coworkers in attendance at the Malvern cemetery where Brent is buried.
We left in the same solemn mood as we had arrived. Through teary eyes we took note of the moon — waxing and nearly full as it chased the setting sun. Coincidentally (or was it?) our music playlist picked the perfect number as we drove away: a Pink Floyd song relatable to anyone who has suffered the loss of a loved one.
“Wish You Were Here.”
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