There were shots fired and "Taps" was being played in the distance. It was a peaceful August morning, a bit cool for the time of year. I was enjoying my usual morning coffee, when the first of the shots rang out. Mind you, it was a small town - gunshots were not something one normally heard around here. I was already on my way to my living room window to see when I heard the mournful music wafting through the air. From my second floor balcony I had a pretty fair view of the cemetery, so I wasn't surprised to see the small gathering of people around a highly decorated lone grave.
It's strange how the death of another human being can impact a person, and the effect is stronger still when it was someone who lost their life in the line of duty. Being no less affected, I resolved to pay my respects to this soldier that evening.
The air was very still in the evening, with an accompanying silence that seemed unnatural. The sound of my footsteps crunching on the sun-parched grass echoed long into the distance as I approached the flag adorned headstone. With the aromatic flowers bringing me a feeling of peace, I straightened up and saluted. "Thank you for your service, sir."
"That was awfully kind of you."
The voice belonged to a young man standing to my left. I was startled, and considering how my walk to the graveyard was anything but silent, I was surprised that I did not hear him approach.
"I'm just paying my respects," I replied after recovering my composure.
"Same here. Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."
He crouched down and picked a red rose from the grave, looking at it thoughtfully. I suddenly felt aware that I might be interrupting a private moment. Before I could inquire, he turned to me and asked, "Did you know him?"
"No," I said, "I heard the ceremony this morning. I thought I'd pass through on my evening walk."
"Another soldier gone to join the greatest army of them all," he stated quietly, almost taking the words from my mouth.
"Exactly."
Straightening up, he smiled at me. "Life's a funny thing, you know. One person's passing can make us reflect on so many things, yet we still go through every day like we'll be here forever."
After pausing for thought, I responded "I've learned not to take things for granted, I think. I try not to think about death too much, you know?"
"Nobody wants to die," he agreed.
"It's the last thing I want to do," I said wryly.
The young man laughed for a second, then a sadness passed across his face for a brief moment. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Do you think all of these men and women will be remembered?" He gestured out over the cemetery to accompany the question.
"To be honest, no," I replied. "Oh, they'll all be remembered by loved ones. Those loved ones will pass on themselves, being remembered while the previous generation is forgotten. Just names on tombstones."
For some reason, he seemed to find comfort in my response. He sighed, crouched down and replaced the rose. His next words were quiet, as if he were afraid to ask me his next question. "So you're saying life ultimately has no purpose?"
"I'm saying I really don't know if there's a purpose."
"Some would say being willing to give your life for your country gives one a purpose. Or having children," he said with a hopeful smile.
I thought about this response, weighing the consequences of my next words carefully. "I could argue that not everyone serves in the military or has children. What purpose would their lives serve?"
He nodded as he contemplated his next words. "You military?" I shook my head. "Any children?" I shook my head again.
"So by the standards you set, you have no purpose." He laughed, shaking his head. "That really can't be true. I mean, you came here to pay your respects to a fallen soldier. Why do that if there's no point to it all?"
This really gave me pause for thought. Why indeed? Did I come out here just to make myself feel like a better person because I cared about the passing of a stranger? I certainly hadn't given thought to the idea that what I was doing might be selfish.
"I suddenly feel like I'm being self-righteous," was my reply.
"I don't think so," he said. "Sounds to me like you coming here gave you a purpose for this evening."
"But that's just one moment in a lifetime," I countered.
"True. But isn't that life in a nutshell? A series of tiny moments that we remember, and in turn shape who we are?"
"So," I was wrestling with this concept, "you're saying that each person has the ability to create their own purpose in life, based on their own experiences?"
He smile was like that of someone who had just won a prize. "Why not? Is there someone you've lost?"
"My mom."
"What things do you remember about her?"
"Things like letting her coffee cool to room temperature before she'd drink it. If she found a blouse she liked, she bought that blouse in every color the store offered." I was smiling as I remembered the unique things that woman did.
He laughed and put a hand on my shoulder. "There's her life, in those moments you remember. She passed on to you a sense of how ridiculous and different we all are. That served a purpose, didn't it?"
"It did indeed," I laughed.
The young man suddenly seemed aware of his surroundings, and looked around furtively. Recovering his composure, he extended his hand. "The name's Howard. I should be on my way, my folks will be worried," he explained as we shook hands.
"It's certainly been an interesting conversation. My name -" I started, but he interrupted me.
"Save it for your tombstone," he said as he walked away, "I'm content knowing your sense of purpose is sound."
I smiled. What an odd conversation to have with such a young person. I turned back to the fallen soldier's grave, and straightened out the flag. I looked back and Howard was nowhere to be seen, having not heard a footstep once again. My footsteps were quiet as well, until a twig snapped loudly under my right foot. I bent down to move it out of the path, and looked at the grave over which it had been lying. I was stunned when I read the headstone's inscription: "Howard McCluskey. Another soldier gone to join the greatest army of them all."
Howard had died some sixty years before. His "folks" were buried next to him.
"Thanks for helping me, Howard," I said aloud with a salute.
The grass now crunching loudly under my feet once again, I made my way home with a new purpose: supper.
Written by B. Alan Hart
©2014
