A Fifty Four Step March

“We shall have to trudge through the snow.” my fellow marcher said. Looking down at my ill prepared sneakers, I nodded my assent.

The car pulled around to the top of the circle that dissects the cemetery into two halves. Justin lies left of center, near the forest line. My foot takes the first step crunching through the thin ice layer on the snow, then a second step. Fifty four steps to his headstone.

A different sort of march. A Mother’s March. A Father’s March. A Brother’s March. We march alone.

Opening the leaf bag, Doug shakes out the folds as I remove the Christmas wreath, yellowed and dry, from Justin’s grave. A patch of green grass lay hidden under the wreath. Life hiding under death. There is an unbroken line of gray from the sky to the bare trees that meet with the snow line. No color to break the monotone shades, no flash of red from a cardinal.

Snow encases our shoes, Doug turns to visit our other family and collect their wreaths. He marches alone. I stand for a few more moments, resting my hand on the burning cold of the headstone. I also turn and march away. Alone.

A different sort of march. We are together, yet we march alone. A death march. A life march. A solitary march. No banners or signs. Just a leaf bag to collect dead evergreens.

No agenda. No news coverage. No inspiring speeches.

Fifty four steps back to the car. Fifty four steps of a march that changed all our lives forever. A Mother’s March. A Father’s March. A Brother’s March. Not a yearly march, a daily mental march punctuated by fifty four physical steps to stare at a small plot of earth.

A different sort of march.

Do not crow about your march du-jour, revel in the splendid freedom that is yours to march, but do not crow about your achievement. Many march unseen to places dark and cold. They march in silence. They march alone.

Fifty four steps. A Mother’s March. A Father’s March. A Brother’s March.

An unseen march.