The national military cemetery is just down the road. As you might imagine, I go often. He is one of thirty-five thousand rising moons, which is what I call those tombstones. White. Uniformed. Rounded. That semi-rough texture of sandstone. Each standing proudly, shoulder to shoulder for as far as the eye can see. I go in sun and in rain, and especially in the snow, when it is bitter cold and stand with them as long as I can, knowing they stood too in the heat, the cold, the snow, in the bitterness of dying anonymously, far from home, leaving mothers to greave the unnatural grief of parent burying child, of wife widowed, of unborn child fatherless.Seldom, seldom do you find anyone else there. I stand amongst them, as in a sea of whispering green, as if they murmur a language sui generis, free now to speak of what could not be spoken before, of fear, and of forgiveness. And there are more days than not I envy the groundsmen. Days I wish I could exhaust myself in the landscaping, the care, to be among those, those young boys who had not what I have, who died mostly without notice, without fanfare and who lie here now, all but abandoned. Come with me. The silence will do you good.
10 comments:
Beautiful.
This post was inspired by my own visit to Nashville's national military cemetery, where 35,000 plus are interred. The day I stopped, I was the only one there. And it did feel as if standing in a sea of green and white. I walked and walked, reading name, date, war, looking at ages and trying to imagine the sacrifice, the pain, the agony given such that I could stand there before heading to my nice home to a nice dinner. A sobering experience.
It shall never cease to amaze how much you capture with your words, there are ripples around this core of narration that seem to encircle every somber and solitary aspect of war. In the duplications, the thousands surrounding the tombstone of this one man, one is reminded not of the many but of the singulars. Beneath every stone, not a life, but a Life. Here she stands alone, among them, embracing in her desire to remain, to give time, back of the time that she has because they gave of theirs. To remain in the sun, in rain, in cold, reaching out through time to feel the elements upon her person as they felt them upon theirs. In the numbers are the unvoiced words, not of one plus one plus one, but of this man and this man and this man. One life is never just one life, surrounding perhaps not on this present day but in history, in heart, in absence, are families, lovers, children, friends, and all the connections that never came to be, time lost, living lost, futures lost.
This post doesn't need comment, to read it is to be stirred, to remember, to imagine not just what was but what never will be. Beautifully evocative, heartfelt, perfect.
But aren't those silent ones the most warming company, the most forgiving listeners to what one has to say? Mine was not a war cemetery, but a tiny one in a churchyard in Blaneau Ffestiniog in northern Wales. The connection for me was that all the "Nows" in that graveyard were actually my predecessors. And I had much to discuss with them.
Very true Limes. I'm sure Mary would agree. :-)
Autumn, sometimes I think you say better what I want to say than I do. The skill in your comments is a gift to me of which I never feel I can say thank you enough.
You just made me slam back in my chair that you could pop her name back at me. "Mary", indeed! Tree, you are GOOD. Mary is from the other side of my family tree, but you're right ~ she helped form my sensibilities and she held family provenance very dear. After my divorce, I moved heaven and earth to reclaim my name. I was born a Now and I'll die a Now. I love visiting Nows both living and departed.
Limes, glad to be of service. :-)
Aside from your writing ability, which is splendid, I've been paying particular attention lately to your art, how each is an exact crafting of what will follow within each post. It dawned on me the other night, that these images replicate what might be viewed as "the pictorial process of thought" ... then, suddenly, while reading the words, the image became an enhancing, transfigured jewel.
As for your post, we are each born to die. It's as simple as that, though what we do as human beings between the two defines the value of our lives. You, Mr. George, with as much grace and dignity, allow them, those you write of - real, spirit, or imagined - to live once more through you.
Gift...
S., thanks for noticing the art. As much time, and sometimes more, goes into creating the images as does the prose, so it is very nice for it to be noticed and appreciated. I do try to work with an image that fits, even abstractly, to the prose at hand.
As I've said to Autumn many times, I can hardly read my own writing and seldom enjoy it. To be brief, I see it not as it is but as it could have been, as I might still change it, a palimpsest to my eye of every revision, edit, change and so forth. I envy anyone who likes what I write here and finds enjoyment in the reading. Perhaps with enough time, I can read what is here as if reading it for the first time. Until then, I shall live vicariously through comments like yours. And for that, I thank you very much. To my eye, Ms S, you are the gift, both in your own splendid prose and poetry, and the love you show me here and elsewhere. When I read what you write, I feel as burlap to your silk.
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