A sentinel is a person who stands guard, watching over, protecting. When I think of a sentinel, I think of a soldier, straight and tall, keeping watch. To my way of thinking, the ancient pine trees that have stood at Caney Cemetery for centuries are sentinels.
I’ve always admired those trees, so tall and strong. If they could talk, I’d ask them a lot of questions and probably be able to write several books from their answers. They stand pretty close to the resting place of a lady who was born before the Revolutionary War. I wonder about the family and friends who came that day to mourn her passing. The trees wold have been much smaller then and the women would have worn long dresses, the men standing with their hats in their hands, heads bowed as a minister offered a prayer. Patient horses would have waited outside the cemetery to carry their owners back to their homes.
The trees were witness to the ceremonies marking Civil War heroes who came back home after suffering the horrors of cannon roars and bayonet thrusts. Growing taller and stronger, the sentinel trees saw other heroes who were brought back to Caney; some who were killed in far-off Viet Nam, some who served in other wars.
I think, judging from the dates on headstones, those pines must mark the early cemetery. It must have begun there, under the shadow of those trees, then spread out all around them through the years. As I watched people move around the headstones yesterday, placing flowers in vases or the ground, I thought about why we come, year after year. We know that our loved ones are not here, only their bodies remain and their spirits have flown, but we come to show that we remember, and to show that we have not forgotten and are grateful that they were here and, perhaps, to whisper that their time with us was far too short and we miss them more than words can say.
The wind moves through those towering trees. Does it whisper secrets meant only for the pines? The trees listen, nod a bit, and sigh. At last, we visitors leave but those sentinels remain, firmly rooted, heads lifted to heaven, a symbol of peace and strength as they guard a place called Caney.
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