Heavy Heart

Standing in the open walkway, looking down, I blink rapidly to chase away the tears as I make out the outline of the ship in the shallow water under my feet. As I watch the water move back and forth, I see the oil bubbles appear on the water. The rainbow colors creating irregular shapes as the oil dissipates. I watch the different patterns of the oil as I begin to catch hushed tones around me. Other visitors watch the same seepage I'm watching, and, trying to show respect, they keep their voices low. Whispers from people as they share stories of what they've heard that causes the oil to seep. The ship "obviously leaking oil"... "it only happens every so often"... the "tears of the brave men who went down with it". "Don't be silly," I hear above many of the whispers, "it can't be tears of dead men." A forceful shushing sound comes from near me. Perhaps the man's wife wants to believe, as I do, that these men are not done reaching out from their graves in the water. I don't know if the bodies are still entombed in the ship; I haven't heard one word any of the guides have told us since stepping foot onto the memorial, and I can't remember anything that I've heard from movies or history books. I'm just all of a sudden grief stricken, and my head is empty of all thoughts.

Even though I hear other people whispering among themselves, I can't get any words past the lump in my throat. I pull my sweater a little tighter around me, like a security blanket, but it's just not enough to give me the calming sensation I'm searching for. My heart is heavy with the thought of what these enlisted brothers, uncles, neighbors and friends went through that resulted in the memorial I'm viewing.

I look down at the sunken ship below me, imagining the terror that must have been at the forefront of the minds of those sailors as they grasped what was happening around them, and what might, and would, inevitably, take their lives. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness comes over me. I can't tell them I'm sorry, that I don't think their lives were lost in vain, or that we definitely learned something from their deaths. I can only hope that their souls are resting as peacefully as the ship is in the depths of the water.

My husband is taking pictures. Respectfully moving around and waiting his turn so as not to intrude on others paying homage to the departed. He has me stand at the memorial wall. He doesn't ask me to smile like he normally would when taking my picture. He can see from the sadness in my eyes that I am emotionally spent. I look at the names. The many, many names. I know none of them, but they all had a mother, a sister, a wife, a fiance, a child they left behind. And under the circumstances of their deaths, it is even more tragic that their names are on the wall.

We move around the memorial, watching, listening, eavesdropping. A few of the older gentlemen are re-visiting their past. They weren't on the Arizona, or even stationed in Hawaii, but they're talking about their military experiences and where they were on that fateful day. Their faces reflect the painful memories they're not willing to share.

It is a solemn visit. A visit that I've been looking forward to for many years. And now I'm realizing just how special it is that this memorial was created. And why we create memorials in the first place.

My shoulders sag as I realize there's nothing to be done for these men that have died serving their country for which this memorial is created. I can only pay my respects and silently thank them for their service. My eyes tear up again, and I tell myself from now on I'm going to be a better wife, a better employee, a better daughter, a better sister. Gosh, I'm even gonna be a more respectful when I'm in the car. Why I feel the need to tell myself to be a better person at this particular moment in time is beyond me. Perhaps I'm feeling that way because these men - and so many other military men and women - won't have the opportunity to do any of those things. Being at the memorial is an experience that every person should experience.