At Teddy Kennedy’s Grave

I went to say goodbye to Sen. Ted Kennedy the other morning.
Last Saturday morning, when it could not quite decide whether or not to rain. My partner and my mom were on their way to the National Book Festival on the Mall in Washington, D.C. and I joined them later, in time to see an unlikely and huge crowd of people who have not heard yet about the Death of the Book, a great gathering in America’s backyard. The event was crowded, a bit too much so for my taste, but it was oddly inspiring and refreshingly democratic. I heard the thickly accented voice of Paula Dean (do you ever wonder when her 15 minutes of fame be over?) and a few funny observations about sex and literature from mystery-writing wonder Walter Mosley.
But before that, I walked up the hill at Arlington National Cemetery, a jaunt that does not seem to get easier as I age. And I saw, in amid the clicking cameras, the where the youngest Kennedy brother was laid to rest last month. I am enough of an old-time liberal to wonder what we will do without Kennedy’s voice. Figuratively and literally. He sounded so good and so confident, with just the right earthy eloquence. He used that voice to champion the needs of the poor and civil rights and gay rights and, above all, health care for all Americans. Those of us who agree with him are missing him about now.
I like cemeteries more than the average person. And I like Arlington as much as any place, although the crowds streaming through are not necessarily respectful (the signs aks us to be) or smart. “We have to be out of here by one o’clock,” one man told another in the men’s room at the visitors center. Their next stop: Walmart.
Before that, at Kennedy’s grave, I was thinking again how people at such sites substitute picture-taking for actually experiencing where they are. I tried to do both: take a photo and then take a moment—to notice the fresh grass on the grave and the slope of the hill and the distance between the three famous Kennedy brothers. I thought this visit was just for the youngest brother and that I would not even stop over to see the presidential grave, but of course I changed my mind and went over there.
It’s an oddly comforting place, Arlington National Cemetery, if only because it celebrates the power and value of remembering itself. I looked out at the oh-so-many markers for the non-Kennedys, the thousands of the less famous who rest here. The rain decided to begin a bit. Even or perhaps especially on a gray morning, this is a beautiful and sustaining place.