Monday, May 27

Riding through Frog Island, I awkwardly balance a mug of coffee in one hand, its contents sloshing against the clear lid. The ratatat of a snare drum echoes across the amphitheater's bowl. At the confluence of pedestrian bridges under Cross St., I turn right, then walk my bike up the hill to meet the band. American Legion Post 282 has a tradition of pausing the Memorial Day Procession -- they are adamant about calling it a procession, not a parade -- in the middle of the bridge and honoring lost mariners by dropping flowers into the river below. I stand next to a group of curious Girl Scouts leaning over the cement barrier and listen to the volunteer band play a shaky hymn. After the selected Legionnaires and Daughters of the Revolution send their bouquets over the edge, the bandleader stands in his Chuck Taylors and blows "Taps" on his bugle. Thirty seconds later the three gun salute startles me and I'm clearly not alone.

Even though the parade is not well advertised, I feel ashamed by the scant turnout. There are more bodies in the procession than there are spectators, making it feel somber, rather than celebratory. I'd planned on bowing out after the bridge ceremony, but given the circumstances I decide to bear witness to the whole thing. My dad is a veteran. Someone has to show up. I ride up River St. ahead of the procession to Highland Cemetery whose stoic iron gates I've run past hundreds of times. I've always meant to explore the grounds, but somehow haven't made the time since I moved here. 

I love cemeteries. They are places of respect where all residents are basically on the same level. The most elaborate mausoleum has no real advantage over the humblest headstone. Everyone's journey is over and their remains are all mixed together among the shady hardwoods, watched over by the same squirrels and birds. I ride down a lane past the groundskeeper's barn and feel a flash of yearning to make that my profession. I'd keep a good cemetery. But, they don't need my help. Highland is a gorgeous and well-maintained place.

After the speeches and ceremony around the Civil War memorial I wander back to my bike leaning against a giant oak. A small banner with Lionel Richie's face on it and a "Hello" caption is planted next to a nearby headstone. Humor reminds the living we are alive. As I'm wheeling towards the exit I see in the distance a young girl in rollerblades careening down one of the blacktop lanes, arms windmilling. She cruises onto the grass and somehow recovers her balance, no harm done. Her father and dog follow unhurried down the hill behind her.