It was a beautiful drive, and the half hour went quickly. When they spotted the yellow-lettered concrete sign that said, "Tahoma National Cemetery" they pulled into the driveway and through the stone gateposts. They were greeted with a sea of tall trees, luxurious green lawns, and a spectacular view of Mt. Rainier. Were it not for the signage and the neat rows of headstones, it would be easy to mistake this place for a park.

They pulled into a space near the visitor center and headed toward the large grassy median that ran the length of the property, first passing a memorial circle with a large flagpole, some benches, and low concrete posts that reminded Cristina of giant grey candy corn. They walked down the long asphalt roadway toward an area filled with row upon row of grave markers. Owen had seemed calm when they exited the car and had taken Cristina's hand gently. Now, as they approached the first expanse of headstones, the only indication of his discomfort was that his grip tightened and he began to crush her fingers. She squeezed back hard to get his attention.

"I think I'm going to be needing that for surgery tomorrow," she nodded toward her hand.

"Oh." A brief and nervous smile flitted across his face. "Sorry." He loosened his grip but did not let go.

Owen led her off the paved road and onto the grass. They walked between row after row of graves, arrayed in military precision and fanning out in all directions. Cristina was struck with how lovely the place was, and how the majestic presence of the mountain gave it a feeling of sacredness that even a nonbeliever like herself could appreciate. Some of the graves bore fresh flowers, while others had small flags planted in front of the marker. Still others were bare, with only the headstone and inscription. There were a few other people around, mostly clustered around particular graves, with the only exception being a larger group gathered beyond the next stand of trees for what must be a funeral in progress. Owen was silent and pensive, and though she had gotten pretty good at reading him over the past few weeks, now she was drawing a blank. As his grip began to tighten again, Cristina placed her other hand on his and rubbed gently to get him to lighten up without having to say anything. She didn't know much about supporting someone at a time like this and thought it best to keep her mouth shut and simply be there without intruding.

"I… I'm not sure where I need to be" Owen was scanning around as they walked, "… but that bench over there looks as good as anyplace else." His voice sounded confused and anxious. They headed over and sat down. He released her hand and ran his own over his face a couple of times. "It's almost too pretty here," he finally said with some exasperation. "I'm not feeling much of any…"

CRACK!.........CRACK!.........CRACK!

His thought was interrupted by the sharp report of a gun salute from the funeral in progress nearby. Owen shifted in his seat uneasily and let his sentence go unfinished as the sound of rifles echoed and died out. He let out a long breath.

Feeling the moment was as right as it was ever going to be, Cristina reached into her bag to remove the enlargement she had made for him. Without saying a word, she gently placed it in his lap. He looked down at it silently, and she could hear his breathing begin to go ragged. What do I do now? Do I put my arm around him? Pat his back? Sit here? I have no clue. Owen solved her dilemma for her when, in a hoarse and agitated voice, he finally said, "I need you to go take a walk now."

She rose silently and began to walk away. I'm not going to take that personally, she thought. This is not about me. None of this is about me. I would be a really selfish, stupid jerk if I made this about me. She headed away from him at an angle that took her off to the side, out of his line of sight but where she could still keep an eye on him. There was no bench nearby, so she sat down on the grass in the shade of an evergreen. She wanted to give him the space he needed but felt it unwise to absent herself entirely. No telling what might happen.

------

Owen was feeling impatient with himself and pissed at the shrink. From the instant they had gotten out of the car he had felt something pushing at him, but he had pushed back equally hard and was managing to keep himself under control. The cracks in the dam were bulging again, but no way was he going to let that sucker pop. He looked around at the flag, the graves, the scenery, and felt only anger and resistance come up. Shit, I'm hopeless. This is not gonna work. Maybe it's a good idea for other people, but not for me. He was thinking about giving up on the whole endeavor when the gun salute rang out in the silence: seven rifles, three rounds - the traditional military sendoff. At the sound, his stomach clenched as if he was on an elevator and the cable had just snapped. Then Cristina – damn her timing - handed him the photo, and he started to feel a tightness in his chest that made it hard to breathe.

He had sent her away. He hoped she understood.

Get a grip. Owen struggled to get back his composure. The shrink had said to let whatever came up come up, but pushing it back down was all he knew how to do. He wrestled with it for a while and realized he was squeezing his eyes shut, not looking at the picture in his hands. He concentrated on his breathing and tried to calm himself down. Even though he knew Cristina was somewhere nearby, Owen had never felt so utterly and completely alone. She was great, terrific even, but she couldn't possibly understand what he was going through, and having her sit there with him had just felt wrong. She had never been in the military. No civilian could truly get it. The people he would have leaned on in this situation were the ones he was here to mourn. Ironic. How ironic. He had no choice. He was in it now and would have to do this alone.

He was so focused on trying to regain control of himself that, at first, he barely noticed the firm touch of a hand on his shoulder. Shit, Cristina, not yet. I'm not ready for you yet. He opened his eyes, ready to send her away again, and turned to find himself looking not at Cristina, but into the intelligent grey eyes of an elderly man with a flag lapel pin, who had sat down beside him on the bench. World War II vet, Owen could tell immediately. Officer. The lack of a uniform did nothing to dispel that impression. What is he doing here? Owen looked into the man's eyes questioningly. He felt the unspoken connection of shared experience, and nodded slightly to acknowledge it.

"Who are you here for, Major?" the man nodded toward the photo.

Owen held his gaze for another long moment before looking down at the picture and really seeing it for the first time. Images began to flood his head in short visual flashes. Those faces…the laughter… the intense highs and lows… the down time they had all spent together… He could see their expressions, hear their voices, and remember what it felt like to be enveloped in their camaraderie. Interspersed with these fond memories were the moments when it was all going down... when he saw them dying around him... not being able to save a single one of them. He couldn't bring himself to answer the question at first, but finally he found his voice and in a hoarse whisper he replied, "All of them."

"Oh," it came out with a groan of sympathy. It was clear from his reaction that he had expected Owen to point out an individual, not the entire unit. The devastation of losing so many people at once was echoed in his eyes, where Owen read compassion, empathy, and most importantly, complete understanding. This guy, whoever he is… he gets it, he thought. I'm not all by myself with this. With this realization, the dam he had been working so hard to hold back cracked wide open with a visceral jolt. An immense and unbearable sadness welled up inside him and surged like bile in his throat. He covered his face with his hands and felt like he was going to vomit, but instead a sound of pure anguish rose up out of his gut and escaped from him in a paroxysm of labored breath. It was followed by another, and then another, until he gave up the last vestiges of his self control and lost all sense of time and space. His body seemed to have taken on a life of its own, choking out ragged sobs of desperation and misery. All the while, the hand on his shoulder maintained a steady grip, anchoring him to the present and allowing him to roll on wave after wave of grief so fathomless he could never have navigated it on his own.

------

Cristina was sitting cross-legged on the ground, pulling up individual blades of grass and peeling them into small strips, all the while keeping an eye on Owen from a distance. She saw the funeral break up down the road, and a few cars from the processional starting and driving away. Some of the mourners were heading on foot toward the entrance. Owen seemed oblivious to all this and was sitting hunched over on the bench, exactly as she had left him.

Shivering slightly from the chill of the fading afternoon, she continued her small labors over the grass. She was just beginning to wonder if this was all that was going to happen today when an elderly man split off from the group of walkers and headed toward Owen. He looked to be about 80 or so, but carried himself with a distinction and a vitality that made him appear ageless. To her surprise, he sat down next to Owen and placed a hand on his shoulder. They seemed to speak for a couple of minutes, and then Cristina was frozen in place by an anguished sound unlike anything she had ever heard before. Owen. It was coming from Owen. It defied description but felt to her like a jagged and rusty knife was being rammed directly into her heart. She came to her feet instantly, tears springing to her eyes, and stifled the urge to run over and wrap her arms around him. Not yet. This is not my part yet. The sounds were continuing, and it was clear that he was in the midst of something deep and profound with this stranger - something in which she should not interfere.

A slight wind had kicked up and clouds were moving in. She hugged herself tightly against the chill and waited.

------

Owen was unable to determine whether an eternity had gone by, or just a few minutes. He had never lost track of himself so completely before. On the battlefield, time seemed to take on another dimension, speeding up or slowing down based on the level of adrenaline in his system. This was different. He felt like he had been swept down the drain by a tidal wave and was only now beginning to surface.

The man who had been the catalyst was gone. He had a vague recollection of thanking him and embracing him briefly, but he wasn't sure if that had really happened or if he had just intended to do it. The photo was sitting in the grass at his feet, apparently having fallen there at some point. The only indication he had of the passage of time was that the sun was setting. He had been there a while.

He felt empty and utterly drained, purged of the nervous tension and anger he had been holding inside for so long. A sense of lightness and relief flooded his system; not quite pleasure but at least the absence of pain. He was numb, and that was not a bad way to be right now.

Whatever he had come here to do today, he had done it. Now it was time to find Cristina and go home. He picked up the photo, rose, and spotted her sitting with her knees tucked up under her chin, huddled under a tree a short distance away. She's probably freezing. Owen walked over to her, offered his hand, and pulled her up. Her fingers were ice cold. He could tell by her expression that she was full of questions, but she said nothing and neither did he. He opened his coat and tucked her inside it with him, and she slid both her arms around his waist and hugged him tightly. Then, with her still wrapped inside his coat and his arm around her shoulders, they made their way slowly back to the car.