Like a wind chime on a pretty porch on a beautiful spring day, the tinkling sound rode the breeze along the winding path throughout the Sacramento Valley National Cemetery on Midway Road. Searching for their origin, I wondered if angels were chattering above the unending rows of white tablets contrasted by the bright green lawns. The perfectly lined stones looked like rows of dominoes that could easily set off a chain reaction of fallen heroes.

There was the sound above my head. My eyes squinted as they followed upward to the large, American flag stretched to its fullest against the bright sun. There were metal brackets attaching the flags to the row of poles and with the gusty winds, they were constantly striking the metal post. I saw it all fitting for a day to remember people I never knew but because of their service, I am free. The wars could have gone differently if not for the gallant sacrifices of all here.

It is hard to imagine that this day began because of an internal war-- a great divide in American thinking that had been simmering for years between northern and southern states over slavery, states' rights, and westward expansion. The war started in 1861 and was the costliest and deadliest war ever fought on American soil, with some 620,000 of 2.4 million soldiers killed, millions more injured and much of the South left in ruin.

Women decorated the graves of the soldiers and this day was first known as “Decoration Day” until it took off across the States and was ultimately signed as Memorial Day by President Lyndon B. Johnson in 1966. It seems strange that it was in my lifetime. Now we memorialize all American military.

In quiet reflection, a lone, white-haired woman sits on a folding camp chair facing a grave; certainly, someone she loved. Suddenly my strength is taken from me. I feel her sadness, her loneliness, her contemplations and I forced myself to reframe to spare my grieving soul. I think of the pleasure she must receive sitting close to the marker that bears the name of her husband, uncle, or possibly her son.

A starched, dark blue military uniform adorned with medals comes to mind, and I see my husband who signed up to serve in the US Air Force at a naive age of 18 to escape a very tiny town in trade for a world of opportunity. Just a few years ago, he ended a 30-year career of service and the thought entered my mind that someday, he and I will be another tablet in this very space. Men engraved on one side, their spouse on the other.

The tinkling comes forefront again as the humongous flag in the middle of the sparkling pond captures my attention. It is at half-mast and there are two water fountains spraying the small ripples around them. I turn to feel the warm rays of sun on my face and listen to the music created by the winds, the chimes, the flaps of the flags. It is an orchestra soothing my reflections and gives comforting assurance that we will have great company here someday.