Memorial Day

So today, in honor of Memorial Day, my husband and I took a walk to the oldest cemetery in our town. We live in one of those small towns on the Hudson River in New York, so the cemetery has graves dating back before we were a country. We walked up the road and went in. There are no fences around this cemetery and no gates. Only old stone steps that are cracked and uneven. On the stones to either side of the steps someone had put flower baskets, probably some section of the American Legion or the D.A.R.

No one has mowed here in a long time and the grounds look more like a sunlit field with waist tall grass and little yellow flowers with headstones sticking up through the grass. Under the shade of the trees the tall grass gives out in favor of moss and clover. Other wildflowers grow in various clumps, pink ones, white ones. And here and there are fresh American flags, stuck in markers probably placed by the same person who left the flower baskets. The bright colors stick out as much as the wildflowers do. More because the yellows, whites, and pinks fit among the green and yellow grass and the white, gray, or brown stones, while the red, white, and blue does not. Still, it isn't always easy to find the graves of the soldiers.

Some say which war they were in. Others make no mention of it. We spend some time guessing which wars the soldiers fought in. Born 1845, so he probably fought in the Civil War, right? We try to remember the dates of the Spanish-American War. Somewhere in the late 1890s. Sometimes the grave the flag is planted nearest doesn't seem to be a soldier. Why is one near the grave of an 18 month old? Or was it near the grave of the mother? Was she a nurse? Given the time period, would she be remembered for that service? Did she find a way to fight? Some of the graves with flags are so worn we can't read the names or dates. The unknown soldier.

At one end is a low wall with a plaque that marks this as the sight where a cannon ball shot by a British boat hit in 1780. I look at the damaged section of the brick wall, a visible reminder that war had been on this land once.

We leave the way we came, down the broken stone steps, though there is nothing to stop us picking a convenient section of hill and going down that way. We hold hands, happy for each other's company and the extra day off together. I mentally thank God that my husband is now too old to be in the first draft if that were to happen. He's too educated too. Educated in things the military would want to use. He is safe. And even though I have had family members in most major U.S. wars since the Revolution, including my father in Viet Nam and my brother who has now left the Navy, war feels distant for me. I am cocooned here, free to worry about gas prices and blog posts.

My husband and I look back at the cemetery before we go. This place is old and unused. The most recent burial we found was over forty years ago. No one comes here. No one but us and some person who placed the flags and the flower baskets. The sun shines and a breeze blows and the grass, wildflowers, and flags all move. The day is perfect. We are safe. This is why we remember.