He Breaks the Bow

I noticed the couple walking towards us along the path. White haired, the man holding a small arrangement of flowers in one hand and his hat in the other, she with a paper in her hand; they walked as I did, head down, counting:

58.......57.......56......

"Are you lost?" I asked as we met on the path.

The lady looked at the paper, bewildered, and then to me, "Do you work here?"

"No, Ma'am. But I have been here many times," I replied. The older gentleman, in his jeans and checked shirt, was looking down at his hat, then out over the garden. I glanced back to the lady, helpfully.

"Oh. We have, too," she said. "Come every year, but it seems like it keeps changing." I know what she meant. We come every year and it seems like it just keeps growing. There's always a new addition in the garden.

"Are you looking for someone?" I prompted again as I felt a drop of sweat trickle down past my sun glasses.

The man never spoke. "Our dear friend. The lady said section 58. I thought it was on the end of a row, but..." She gestured half heartedly.

"What month and year?" I smiled helpfully and then glanced across the field to get my bearings. The year that section of the garden was added is plainly visible on stark white markers.

"Um...2005...May, I think."

"Oh. I know where that is. I'll show you the way." We had already been to all the places in the garden we needed to go. I knew them well and all the places in between.

I turned back along the path and down back towards the bowl of the valley. Earlier, the thunder had rolled across the hills, echoing like cannon, disturbing the quiet, before a few large drops had fallen. I picked my way carefully along the path, avoiding the bare areas where grass had not yet grown in the new additions. Head down, counting again:

56...57....58....

World War II. Vietnam. Vietnam. Vietnam. Vietnam. Korea. Vietnam. Vietnam. Persian Gulf. Vietnam. Vietnam. Vietnam.

GYSGT. USMC. MPH. LT COL. AIR FORCE. DFC. 2 OLC. 1SGT. ARMY. BSM. OLC. ARCOM. S1. USN. PFC. ARMY. MSM. AAM.

When I first came to the garden I didn't know how to read the stories written in the stone. Now I know. I read them quietly to myself as we went along.

Two young men came up the path in a cart, "Are you finding everything alright?" These polite caretakers are the reason that the garden looks so beautiful all year long.

"Yes. Thank you." I gestured to the older couple who approached more slowly. "They're looking for their friend."

"What's his name? We can look him up for you." They stopped and one young man stepped out, pulling out a book.

I turned to the lady as she approached, the man still silent, standing behind. "What's his name?"

"David...David Leonard Buckles." She looked back to the silent man who stayed where he was.

"Just a minute." The young man flipped the book open. One page. Two pages. "Almost there." He ran his finger down the page, near the bottom he stopped. "Ah...David L. Buckles. Section 58, Row 9, 16." He closed the book and looked up. "In this section, go west...ah...back up the hill. The numbers are on the back of the stones." The stones always face east in the garden. Towards the sunrise so the sun will always be on their faces.

The lady must have still looked confused, "Here, I'll show you." He placed the book back in the cart and took the lady's arm. The other young man followed behind in the cart.

"Thank you," I said as they passed.

"Yes. Thank you." The lady echoed somewhat relieved. She turned back a little to me as they walked, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." I watched them go, a few yards back up the hill towards the silent man. He put his red hat back on, the one with the yellow writing: USMC. Still silent, he raised his hand. I raised mine in acknowledgement. In that moment, I knew him. Then he turned and walked on.

I looked out over the valley, watching the others who moved quietly through the garden of stone with their flowers and small gifts, pausing here and there to read the stories, bending down to place their offerings or straighten a flag. A young woman sat near a stone while a boy stood fidgeting near by.

I watched my mom walk back towards me through the stones, along the grassy path, "I found Fred. Somebody's already been to visit."

"Oh." I heard the chimes from the chapel on the hill start to chime the Armed Forces Medley. We knew so many here in the garden.

Every time I come to the garden, I learn something new. Why the stones faced east. How the sections were organized. How to read their stories. I had always admired the long rows of stone. I knew that the position of each stone was measured out to form precise lines like a military formation on the parade ground.

This time, I got "it". The "it" we're supposed to get when we honor all those who have fought for our nation and are now gone. Not sadness or grief, nor pride or gratitude nor even peace. Not even simply satisfaction for doing what should be done.

They rested here in military precision, the stones a measured distance apart, the last formation, but they had already been relieved from their posts. Their job was done.

What were the words? They were floating around on the edge of my memory. Oh. Yes...

He breaks the bow and shatters the spears...

An odd feeling struck me. Odd because I was standing in the garden of stone, a place where those who had lived through battle now rested and those who remained often still grieved.

It was...happiness.

"What time is it?"

"Hmmm?" I cocked my head and listened to the chimes fade away on the last notes of the Navy song, Anchors Aweigh. "A little after two, I think. Are you ready to go?" We had a birthday party to get to.

I took her arm and we left the garden. But, we'd be back soon to visit again, learning the additions, admiring the flowers and reading the stories as we walked to the places that we knew well. Next time, I'll remember all the words.