Washington, DC. The political heart of our nation. A hive of activity. People from around the world live and work and dream on the intentionally confusing streets. Not being from the city, driving around in this one and expecting to end up anywhere close to the intended destination requires the help of MapQuest every time.
People yell. Horns honk. Cars speed past whenever the light ahead changes. The car passes national landmark monuments and gratified apartment buildings; one minute brightly painted and whimsically decorated shops, the next the Mongolian Embassy. Everywhere people walk at a brisk city pace, except for the man who stands with a cigarette outside the supermarket, who’s appearance gives the impression that he has no where left to go.
But nestled in the midst of the busy city that runs the United States, there is a peaceful green patch of peace. It seems the car turns just one corner, and we’re there. I’ve seen the headstones on TV and I hesitate to even compare that with the experience of standing on the same ground. It takes my breath away at first glimpse, and every sighting after; the short hour spent in that place is shrouded in my memory by a sense of awe so great that it was all I could think of when we were there. Even inside the administration building I stare out the window at the squirrel that is curled up on a branch against the trunk so tight that all four of his little feet were hidden, and his tail curled up over his back all the way to his nose. Snow on the ground kept him from leaving his branch, and instinct told me to put him inside my coat to keep warm.
We walk to a pavilion where six men handle the flag over the honored with such precision and respect that it is all I can remember thinking about. The chaplain speaks of the honored’s role in World War Two and his service to the nation that is now serving him. From 50 yards off a three-volley salute is fired, and I can hear it echo through the acres of green and white and hundreds of years.
With slow deliberation the six flag bearers fold our flag into it’s triangle and one of them, with measured strides presents it to the chaplain. He in turn kneels in front of the honored’s daughter and passes the flag on to her with words spoken so softly I can not hear them from three yards back. After the practiced military procedure, this gentleness raises more goosebumps on my arms than the piercing wind ever did. The ceremony finishes, but another salute is heard in the distance, reminding me that this is not a single event, but it is as singular in it’s importance as every white headstone on that field.
We walk again, into the walls, past man upon man and woman who have served a beautiful nation. Frazier, Callahan, Smith. Each stone with a symbol above it: a cross, a star, a Celtic knot. All names, backgrounds, religions united under one flag and convicted enough to fight – even die – for it. I feel a shiver that does not come from the cold.
Another veteran is given to the wall, and we are free to return to our cars and the busy DC streets. From the window as we leave all I can see are the rows. Many headstones are adorned with Christmas wreaths, many belong to men who’s families no longer survive; but more than anything else, there are many.
Neat white rows.
Neatly carved names.
Dates, some showing lives cut short.
I feel like a shivering squirrel curled up on a branch above the snow, suddenly wrapped in the warm and compelling folds of a tri-color cloth that will wave forever to honor the blood freely given in it’s name.