The Power of Place
Shannon Fojtik
Pensacola, Fla. — Duncan road stretches over Bayou Grande in the city of Pensacola, Florida. The bridge is small and as you cross, you can see homes at the far end of the bayou, built up on the small hills bordering the water. In my memories, the day is almost always cloudy and humid, the weather always matching the melancholy mood that strikes me as we get to this point in our drive. As the end of the bridge approaches, we stop at the gates, guarded by Navy Armed Forces Security, and hand them our identification which grants us passage to the Naval Air Station.
We drive straight and to the right the ruins of the old forts from the Civil War can be seen poking out, the bricks that compose the entire old structure an obvious red up against the green grass. We drive forward.
At the first stop light we come to, we turn right. The scenery refuses to change and remains the same lush green of grass stretching consistently throughout with a few tall trees every half mile or so.
After one more right turn and a quick left turn, we drive in between two huge trees, their foliage stretching together to create a kind of archway for us to drive under, almost to say, “You are here.”
We slowly make our way down the little road, past the hundreds of white headstones that stand in organized rows, each one with a certain symbol: a cross, a star of David, an infinity symbol. I see the walls up ahead, each not connected to the other. A flag pole stands in the center with an American flag waving proudly up above us as a light from the ground shines upon it so that it stays waving, forever and always.
We park the car along one of the rows of walls and slowly get out. It is quiet, almost so much so that we dare not even take a breath out of fear that we may ruin the peace of this place. I see his name. He is waiting for us, like he has been every day since June 15, 2013. I walk to him.
The stone is a brilliant white and the purity of it seems appropriate for what it stands guarding constantly. I run my hand along the top of it and it is cold, smooth. I trace the letters that are carved into it and I feel a lump in my throat as tears tempt to gather in my eyes. The wind blows a cool gust and I look up to the flag as it snaps and flows with the breeze. This place is lucky to have him here.
“A life so beautifully lived.” That is what is carved into the stone under his name and the years in which he was born and when he died. It couldn’t be more true. I look down the row and see the other stones that are hung in a grid formation around him and I think about all the stories that are withheld behind these never-opening doors. Do these stories measure up to his? Could I believe anybody’s story would ever measure up to his?
The top right corner of the stone has a hint of pinkish-red that has been present for over five years now. This is something that no other stone in this place has. It is where she has kissed him hello and goodbye. Every week. Of every month. Of every year. Since June 15, 2013.
