In the afternoon on April 8, we drove to Marion National Cemetery. My husband is buried in section 13, about four plots in from the road. All the stones are white marble with striations of gray to black. They’re arranged in symmetrical rows; looking out over the stones gives a diffraction pattern. The brand new stones are all about four inches thick and very smooth, with straight sides and curved tops. On the back of each is a number giving section and plot in the cemetery. On the front they give names, dates, military rank and area of service, plus a short phrase at the bottom. Most of them have a religious symbol above the name. My husband’s has a small oval containing the angel Moroni blowing his trumpet.

There are trees along the edges of the sections, but none shaded my husband’s grave. I was glad, because the weather was just right for short sleeves, with a mere zephyr of breeze. The stone felt cold, but not freezing, just solidly cool. In the few minutes I took to be alone with it, I hugged the stone to my chest, kneeling in front of it. I felt comforted there.

The marble was full of white crystals, tightly packed. I thanked God for a bountiful supply of white marble in the world. Someday there will be no more easily obtainable marble, but not yet. Each stone had different striations, some side-to-side, some up and down, some a slight curve. My husband’s stone has lines from the bottom to the top, almost straight up. It reminds me to think of heaven, as also Moroni reminds me that the trump shall sound and all the dead shall arise. My husband was always trying to do better, constantly striving to improve. He is a good example to me. I cannot sit down and do nothing. There is good to do. There are people to help, children to teach, lives to save, friends to encourage, and enemies to forgive.