Arlington National Cemetery
The groundskeeper had seen thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of people come through his domain. They came when they felt alone; they came when they felt guilty. They came when they had news, they came when they had secrets. Weekends were the busiest times, Sundays the busiest days. Holidays were the most active. Veterans' Day took him weeks to recover from.
The headstones in their neat white rows were as unique to him as the trees and the bushes. He knew every inch, he knew all the names. Had a good memory for names, always had.
Today he was clearing downed branches from one of the newer sections, noting areas where the winter freezes had heaved up sidewalks and dug potholes in roads so he could direct the crews to come fix them. It was early afternoon, a very quiet time. People were at work, and a trip to the cemetery wasn't typically on their agenda.
He heard footsteps approaching and drew back. He didn't like to be visible to people when they were visiting the graves of loved ones. He was a reminder of the business of death; they were here to mourn a life.
A young couple passed him, a tall man with long hair and a pretty dark-haired woman. The woman was carrying a bunch of flowers, her arm through the man's elbow. They approached one of the headstones and stopped. The man stepped aside slightly and the woman stood right before the grave. Her relative, then. She crouched and placed the flowers, then reached out and touched the stone. For a few moments she stayed there, head bowed. The man stood over her, looking down at her sadly, like he wished he could take her pain away.
She straightened up again, taking a quick swipe at her eyes with gloved fingers. The man embraced her and she folded against him, hanging on to the lapels of his overcoat. She seemed to be crying a little.
The groundskeeper had seen this a thousand times. People came to mourn. Often they came alone, wanting a private moment with their departed loved one. If they brought someone along, it would be someone very special, very close, someone they permitted to see them at their most vulnerable, someone they trusted to witness their communion with their memories. This woman would be even less likely to allow others to see her grief. He knew people. He could read them, and these two weren't difficult. Her clothing, sharp and tailored but utilitarian, told him she was practical. She had a tough, almost military bearing. The name on the tombstone she was visiting told him she came from money, so she'd battled the perception of rich-girl all her life. She'd walked up to this grave with a composed expression, carrying the flowers like you'd carry an umbrella, not cradling them like an offering but hauling them like a tool. She was independent and defended.
Not with this man, though. Him, she leaned on when she had to. He was taller but more delicate than she was; he seemed softer and less braced. He had awkwardness in his gait; his hair and clothing marked him as an academic. His emotions were clearer on his face. This was not his sorrow, but his apprehension as they'd approached was greater than hers because he dreaded her pain.
These two were married or might as well have been. The woman had composed herself and now looked up at him, putting on an 'I'm-okay' smile. He touched her face, wiping her tears away. He murmured something and she nodded. They turned and headed back toward the road, closer to each other than when they'd arrived, his arm around her shoulders and hers at his waist.
The groundskeeper watched them pass, unseen. The man kissed her temple and she smiled, sighing in relief at having completed her visit. The groundskeeper couldn't help but smile, too. One of the things he liked about his job was seeing people draw together in times of loss. The two people he'd just seen loved each other; it was obvious in their body language and their faces. People in love ought to shoulder each other's burdens.
He watched them as they disappeared over the hill, probably headed back to work. He wondered what they did for a living.
Probably nothing remotely like what he did.
