It was a cool, crisp November day. It was, in fact, Veteran’s Day. There were many families gathered at Arlington National Cemetery. It was bustling with somber activity as relatives searched for and paid their respects at the graves of their loved ones. The sun was bright, but not enough to warm the chill that was in the air. The old woman made her way through the rows of white stones, searching for the one she came here to see. She hobbled slowly, arthritis had long taken her ability to rush. She was eager to see the grave, she’d only been here once before in her life. That was the day he was buried. Private First Class Johnathan McRae. After spending hours searching, she had finally found his burial site. There was a small American flag decorating his grave.
Her sobs caught in her throat as she stretched out a wrinkled, gnarled hand and placed it on the cold, hard stone. This is where her baby lay, her only son. Today she was reminded of the adage “Life isn’t fair”. It’s certainly true, she thought. It’s never fair for a parent to have to bury their child. He had been the light of her life, her pride and joy and he was taken from her by a cruel and uncaring war, one that had taken plenty of others like him.
She placed a single white rose on the headstone. She studied the stone, it’s shape, color and words. This would likely be the last time she would ever see it. She had scrimped and saved her money for several years to make this journey to Virginia, and she doubted that she would ever be able to do it again. She was on a fixed income, and saving money wasn’t easy when you only had $800 a month to live off of. It wasn’t fair. All she had wanted for years was to come and see her boy. Now that she was here, she didn’t want to leave. Her muscles ached, partly from the long walk to his grave, and partly from standing in one place for too long. She needed to sit down. She searched and finally spotted a wrought-iron bench at the end of one row of graves. She shuffled slowly to the bench, each step reminding her of her advanced age.
As she reached the bench, two boys about ten years of age rushed ahead of her and took up the space on the bench. Their mother, close behind them, apologized to the old woman and ran the boys off. The old woman sat down, feeling the burning in her feet and legs. She closed her eyes and the tears fell. She could no longer control the sobs. The pain of loss was renewed, her chest hurt and her face stung from the cold wind hitting her wet cheeks.
She regretted burying her son at Arlington. She could have chosen to have him buried at home, in a local cemetery, but Saul insisted it was an honor and his mind was made up. She gasped for air between sobs. A couple of young passersby looked at her with concern, but said nothing and kept walking. To them she was just an old woman, crying on a bench. They wouldn’t know, couldn’t know, the story of Johnathan’s death, and how much she missed him.
Her tears subsided, and she tried to compose herself. What a spectacle she must be, crying so loudly and unabashedly in a public place. The thought had been at the edge of her mind, and now came to the forefront. She took a tissue from her pocket and dried her tear-stained face. The whipping wind still stung, and she pulled her coat tighter around her body, flipping up the collar to offer some protection.
The two young boys returned to the bench where she was sitting. One of them sat beside her, the other on the ground near her feet. The one sitting on the bench with her placed his small hand on top of hers. She took his hand and squeezed, and she forced a smile.
“What’s your name?” She asked.
“Johnathan.” He replied.
“That was my son’s name.” She sniffled and looked back out at the neat rows of headstones.
“Are you here to see your son?” The boy asked.
“Yes, I am. I haven’t seen him for many years.”
“How come?”
“Because I live far away.”
“Oh. How did your son die?”
The old woman shifted her weight on the hard metal bench. She looked down at the boy and began telling him the story of her son, Johnathan.
