I walked through a grove.
A grove of hero’s.
The white stones all in a row.
Upon these stones,
Names of those buried there.
Where they served.
When they died.
And the rank they held when they died.
A tiny Cross on some.
The Star of David on others.
A small flag waves in the breeze.
The silence here is haunting.
These stones stand tall and straight.
They bore no fruit.
They only told a small story.
One of a Soldier who lays now in the ground.
I stop and salute as I pass each stone.
A child ask me why I saluted each stone.
I could only say that it was my way to honor those here.
He said he understood.
As he walked away I saw him saluting the stones.
I knelt down and ask God to protect the young child.
So that they would never know the story told in this grove.
That this grove only grows as those who serve die and come home.
As I walked away I heard a voice behind me.
The voice seemed as if it was in a tunnel.
It said “Bless You Comrade.”
I turned and no one was there.
Sleep Comrade your peaceful sleep.
Dream of times without wars or hate.
Hope for the country that sent you here.
Wait for someday we will see you again.
As I got in my car to leave I felt a hand.
It took my shoulder and held tight.
A whisper in my ear.
And it was gone.
I walked through a grove today.
A grove of Graves.
A grove of Hero’s.
A Comrade In Arms.
A soul of humanity.
Yes, I walked through that grove today.
And there I will stay.
For I am only one story.
My stone tells my short story.
And I will be here forever.
That is the grove of my friends.
That is the grove where I live.
The Grove of the Dead.