Here lies Needham, a cousin. My son kneeling.
According to a soldier's diary it was a head wound. It took Needham two days to die.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I suppose it matters little to the dead? The flesh of kin upon a stone, a shared pulse of DNA.
It is nice here. It is rather peaceful at Soldiers' Rest.
No crowds of tourists. No throngs to cast eyes or thoughts. Perhaps it was different in another time ....Well, I know it was..... I've lived long enough to know....Times change, people change....
Needham could have done worse, I guess. Others- so many others, many his friends- were lost forever, no stones to mark their rest, only the anonymous woods and fields at places like Port Gibson, Champion Hill.
Yes, Needham is fortunate in that way. Others of his friends are there in the fields, maybe gullies, or some quiet patch of woods, still lost to this day. No one came back for them- except, perhaps, the occassional varmint that happens upon sun-bleached bones on the forest floor.
Here Needham is "marked." Here it is peaceful beneath the magnolia and cherry bark, where the occassional mockingbird swoops down on an unsuspecting squirrel. The ground is neat and known, not some random gully or forest floor, where the sometime visitor may come and ponder.
I like to think he's just fine here. Needham. Resting with his friends...