When I went to the cemetery on Friday afternoon, I expected it to be so quiet and peaceful, as is my personal definition of those places where sleep is eternal. But as I wandered through those tidy rows of monuments, all that remains of so many lives well lived, and years of history of service men and women who responded when called to action, it was not 'so quiet'. There is surely constant activity with frequent internments. And ongoing need for maintenance, mowing, planting, prepping, working on improvements that need to be done.
What I became aware of as I walked through were lots of sounds that resulted from workers going about their activities in a place that I would have expected to be so silent and solitary. You think of cemeteries as environments of peace and tranquility, with noises only associated with the occasional funeral cortege and services with grieving families present. But this place had a number of unexpected of sounds that I only noticed when I stopped to listen.
The workers who were interring a casket of a deceased veteran, using a backhoe fitted with heavy duty slings to safely lower the box into the ground. The grinding gears of the heavy yellow machinery as the casket was meticulously delivered into the opening in the earth.
Other workers with hand held shovels, with voices muted by distance, as gravediggers constantly open new graves, industriously refilling the same spaces following interments.
Power pounder, like the street crews employ to level the dirt before paving, used by the workers to flatten the earth, bring backfill up to proper level, before the crews replace the sod to make the newest interment appear timeless.
The sound of the bugler, playing Taps in the distance, under the shelter, as the family stands by for one last time with their loved one. Heart-wrenching melody.
The quiet sound of the breeze, softly whispering through the leaves of the hardwoods and pines.
The sound of volleys of twenty one gun salute. You can see it about to happen, but invariably flinch when you hear the sound. Echoing off the hills, a haunting refrain of diminishing volume.
The sharp snap of another American flag being folded into a elongated rectangle, then a series of carefully made triangles, and presented to a wife or mother, daughter or dad.
Feet crunching gravel along the path, as visitors search for markers of their loved ones.
Groups of mourners talking, in muffled tones, as they head toward their vehicles, to move on with their lives, making emotional adjustments for the holes they carry in their hearts.
Closing car doors, to leave and return to busy-ness of daily activities.
Autos starting up, and slowly driving away, with families spreading out to go their separate ways.
The distant clink of hardware on the huge Stars and Stripes, billowing in the breeze, against the metal of the flagpole, as the clips that hold the flag on the rope bang against the metal of the tall pole. As the American furls in the gentle wind, at half mast here on another June 6, in remembrance of the hellish scene on the beaches of Normandy France.
And then, finally, the sound of silence, eternal peace at the end of day.
No comments:
Post a Comment