(no subject)
Arlington
What struck her the most was the massive silence as she walked across the towering bridge, its cobblestone road untouched by modern asphalt.
She was dressed in her muted Sunday best--a pink jacket over a long-sleeved peach-colored blouse paired with a knee-length black skirt and black flats--with her hair pulled back from her face, and a camera in hand. There was something about this place that almost made her change her mind about taking pictures.
As she well-remembered, cobblestones were hard to walk on in flats, and she winced when she miscalculated the arch between one stone and the next. The crowds at the iron gates were muted and patient as they walked under the archway: parents talking to chattering children or family members muttering to each other. She studied the stone mural as they waited.
The main entrance hall was loud, sound bouncing off of the marble walls and floors as children skipped from one display to another, trailed by anxious, and perhaps slightly embarrassed, parents who field their incessant questions and comments. She sidestepped a rambunctious boy of maybe eight, and smiled understandingly at his harried mother who followed a moment later. There was very little time for her here, so she didn't have the luxury of lingering from case to case. Instead, she walked straight out of the entrance hall and into a living silence.
The stones here were white and gray, with the rarer brownstone or black mixed in. Up on the hill, the flag flew at eternal half-mast, its banner fluttering in the light wind. It seemed fitting.
She followed the crowds and began to walk, mindful of the time.
Yet here, in the quiet solemnity under the mid-morning sun, she forgot the meaning of time and concentrated instead on the row upon row that she passed, calculating time in her mind and finding all of her answer too heartbreakingly short.
Younger. Older. War. Peace. Young. Same. Same. Same. Older. Same. Young. Same. Same. Two months younger. Just a day older.
Gettysburg. WWI. WWII. Vietnam. Korea. Iraq. Afghanistan. Iraq.
The steps were steep and she made herself pay attention to her footing to hold back the lump in her throat. She turned her head to study the engravings on the smooth marble, gold on brown. Here, there was surprising disorder, yet it made sense in a way. Names she knew well, clustered together in rest as they were in her history books, stories springing to life. She recited their lives to herself, tying this moment to her memories.
She moved onto the wide outlook and stared out at the sweeping vista of the capital, only a few miles, maybe even less, away, all its hustle and bustle seemingly a lifetime away from this place. A child ran to the wide stone railing and his father, a moment later, "No running." The crowds were quiet, and children were kept firmly in hand. No shrieking games of tag or wailing temper tantrums. It was odd. Slow footsteps and the tap of a cane, she moved out of the way without looking back. The air was heavy here, and not the normal kind either.
With all the others, she walked past the eternal flame of one of the nation's much beloved families, looking down at the flowers left on smooth granite and glancing up at the flag now fluttering in the breeze, its lines clinking sporadically against metal. She moved on upwards, higher to the base of the flagpole, reading its inscription and glancing at the long line to enter the house. She turned away; this wasn't the point of her convincing her parents to come here today.
She walked down the stairs, glancing at the clusters of graves, of inscriptions for generals and their wives, pastors and sailors, soldiers and Marines, judges and doctors, of stories told in a few short words and wondered what kind of lives did they lead before coming here for eternal rest. Halfway down the stairs, she stopped and looked out at the view in front of her.
Trees in spring green, towering over row upon row upon row of neatly ordered headstones, spreading out and stopping abruptly in one plot but continuing on in others. Standing there, she heard silence, a heavy remarkable silence that was only broken by footsteps behind her. She smiled ruefully and hurried on down the path.
She took the twisting stairs and path randomly, wandering quietly with her thoughts. It was without intent that she paused at a map, and remembered, of course. She changed her road and found herself standing in the Amphitheater, hidden beside one of its towering columns. There was a steady procession of dark cars going past slowly. There was no need for anyone to tell her why they were there. Words of gratitude and prayer fell from her lips and she wondered if she had brought tissues with her. Before she could cry, she moved on, feeling the weight of all that was here following her.
She joined the crowds that waited on the stairs, solemnly eager to watch tradition being carried out. She put down her camera and tucked it away to watch. There were some things she couldn't bring herself to photograph, and this was one of them. The changing of the Sentinel was simple as it was profound, elegant as it was rapid. The crowd broke up soon after that, the quietness of the mass unbroken as they dispersed. She came forward then, and raised her camera.
A plane flew overhead and she looked up, watching it fly to its destination. In a handful of hours, she would be on one of those planes, heading home. She looked at the white marble tomb in front of her, and the flower wreaths that lay at its foot. Old poems ran through her head, about loss and sacrifice, pride and grief, honor and service. She inclined her head slightly, her prayer of gratitude echoing in her mind. Her father pressed tissues into her hand without a word.
She smiled in thanks and then walked away, returning to her spot before. With a heavy sigh, she leaned lightly against the cool stone and stared out at the cemetery. There was the steady click of horseshoes and the jingle of harnesses and she watched a casket go by, dark cars following slowly. Between choked words of prayer, she muffled her sudden tears because... because they were so young, not much older, and what were they dying for?
She forced herself to calm down and to steady her breaths before she wiped away the evidence on her cheeks. What were they dying for? Tucking her tissues into her jacket pocket, she walked out for a clearer breath of air. She crossed the street, mindful of the trams, and came to a stop in front of memorials, all of them dwarfed by one. She made herself read the inscriptions to put out of mind her thoughts. Korea. A bench for all the missing. Challenger. More flowers. She wondered who placed them there. Her parents hovered nearby and her father tapped his watch. She sighed and turned to go.
Down the hill they went, steps quick though hers lagged occasionally as she paused by the chained-off rows to read the names and dates. There were a few people, here and there, who stepped on the grass and she looked away, unable to intrude on that moment. Numbers marked off every row in cast-iron numerals, and she prayed, she knew futilely, for the unfinished rows to remain forever incomplete. A hum of a lawnmower broke the silence, a contrast to the sanctity that this place embodied, yet it made sense. No one wanted to trim grass in the dark.
She navigated by cross and tree, the flagpole and the house. Just one moment to take in the grandeur of the place, and think it fitting before moving on, leaving before it became too much to hold in. On the last path, the one that led toward departure, she shuddered at the sharp report that cracked behind her. She counted her steps, two between each, and three times. With the slightest pause in her stride, she stepped through the archway, back into the fast-paced world of the living, leaving behind her the honored dead in their final rest..
That would haunt her, that salute to the fallen, clear as the spring sky above her and echoing through her spirit. They'd died for her, and she'd fight to bring them home.