A sound so loud, it can only be best described as hushed silence.
All along the platform, a collective breath has inhaled in cascading unison and like falling dominos, it is quickly quiet.
The soft cool breeze that has gently tapped each shoulder has delivered an entrance.
At the doors of the station, stand six tall Marines and in their six strong hands, holds one of ours.
They walk at a glacial pace with purpose and no one speaks; shifts or shuffles. The entire station is silent and staring at track eight, the 177 to Washington, DC.
A father, a few back from me, finds the hand of his young son and squeezes gently as his eyes fill with moist.
The door to the baggage car is ceremoniously opened, officers stand erect, canines sit and there is not a hat on in the entire yard. The coffin is raised to eye level and three carrying with their left, salute smartly before entering.
So Blessed we are.
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