The Guards Caisson of Arlington National Cemetery

The show of color catches my eye as the branches crisscross, making a canopy over my head. Inspiring patterns are made by the sunlight streaming through. Autumn is here and soon, the recurring season will blow into the wind.
So beautiful, yet sad

I can hear the sound coming before I even see it. There is no rush, and there is no slowing down, only the rhythmic sound of six horses, and their hooves - as they pull the caisson. They make their way past me, to the final resting place of the soldier. My heart stops beating and I try to slowly breathe.

That is exactly what I feel like, every time I am here, then make my way home once again, leaving my loved ones behind.

All I have are my words, armed in my mind, written in pen, stand by stand. Oh, yes. Still by hand. It has a different feel. Altered not by keys, backspace, and delete, I write, erase, tear it to pieces and start all over again. And again.

It’s my way. I walk out to the deep end of the page and dive right in.

Thankyou