To The Herald-Whig:
I was very good on my feet when I was quite a big younger. I used to walk out to our veterans cemetery (Sunset Cemetery). I've always felt that somehow, walking in a veterans cemetery, one had a feeling like walking on hallowed ground so to speak.
I used to seek out a gravestone way in the back, next to a big old tree. They were not as well taken care of as now. One could hardly make out the names they were so weatherbeaten. Although I did not know their names, all of them wore their country's uniform and that is all that mattered to me. Yet while standing there, meditating, I wondered what these veterans that slept beneath the sod might have looked like when young and full of life, and if someone still thought of them. I recall that once, while standing there saying a little prayer, I heard a rustling in the fallen leaves. It was a little squirrel, eyeing me as if to ask, "What are you doing out here in my territory?" Indeed, squirrels were more frequent visitors than people.
I somehow communicated with those veterans, wondering if some served in Europe, perhaps even in Germany where I used to live. I felt I was in a special place. I was thinking of all those fallen heroes who sleep in those huge cemeteries overseas that died for you and me. I somehow pictured myself laying a little red rose on each grave because it is my nature of being sentimental to a fault.
I have always been sure that every hero who fell on the battlefield is walking now in the heavenly meadows with angels in the presence of God Almighty. Didn't they all give their utmost, laying down their lives on the altar of sacrifice.
I think of them as if they all are like flowers that will never decay, flowers that are blooming forever in the Master's bouquet.