Once the service ended, I watched the tiny crowd. The seven men I was here to see turned and walked in the opposite direction from me, somberly shouldering their rifles as they headed toward a row of cars. I tried to catch up with them but the ground was muddy, and the heels of my Joan & David pumps sunk into the ground with the first step. Fortunately, storing away the bugle and the rifles took a few moments, allowing me time to walk around the perimeter on the sidewalk and reach them before they drove away. All of the other mourners had already gone by them, leaving only the seven men crowded into two cars and me.

I waved at the driver of the front car and he rolled down his window and smiled. The second car must not have noticed me, for they pulled into traffic and headed off, I assumed back toward the veterans center.

“Can I help you, young lady?” the man in front of me asked, perfect dentured teeth showing in a tanned, wrinkled face. He looked to be in his late 70s, weathered but still handsome in a crisp white naval dress uniform. I guess to him I was a young lady—though, in my early 30s, I didn’t feel all that young.

“I’m looking for Commander Davis,” I said.

“That’s me,” he replied. He opened the door of the car and stepped out, closing it behind him as the other men peered curiously from inside.

“Callie Webber,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“It’s my privilege, ma’am,” he replied, glancing down at the envelope I held in my hand. “Thanks aren’t necessary. It’s part of the Greater Nashville Honor Guard Society service. No charge, please.”

I realized he thought I was connected to the deceased and that I was here to thank him and to pay him for the military send-off. I smiled. I was here to give him some money, but not for the reason he thought.

“That’s a beautiful service you provide,” I said. “Very dignified and touching.”

“It’s our opinion, ma’am, that every veteran deserves full military honors at his or her funeral.”

“Yes, I agree,” I said, aware that although the government mandates supplying a burial flag and two military representatives at veterans’ funerals, it’s up to volunteer groups like this one to flesh things out by giving a full military sendoff, including the firing party and a live rendition of Taps. I thought their group provided a valuable community service, and I was happy to be the bearer of good news on this sunny autumn morning—despite my distracted mind-set and the grim surroundings of a cemetery.

“’Course,” he said, “our job is a lot easier on a gorgeous morning like this. Two days ago, we were out doing this in the pouring rain.”