A friend sent me this and I wanted to share it.  Hope you enjoy.

I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to  Smokey's.  Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time,  1655.  Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are  closed for the day.  Full dress was hot in the August  sun.   Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever--the heat  and humidity at the same level--both too high.  
   
   I saw the  car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville, looked  factory-new.  It pulled into the parking lot at a  snail's pace.  An old woman got out so slow I thought  she was paralyzed; she had a cane and a sheaf of flowers--about  four or five bunches as best I could tell.  
   
   I  couldn't help myself.  The thought came unwanted, and  left a slightly bitter taste:  'She's going to spend an  hour, and for this old soldier, my hip hurts like hell and I'm  ready to get out of here right now!'  But for this day,  my duty was to assist anyone coming in.  
   
   Kevin  would lock the 'In' gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along,  we might make it to Smokey's in time.  

   I broke  post attention.  My hip made gritty noises when I took  the first step and the pain went up a notch.  I must  have made a real military sight:  middle-aged man with a  small pot gut and half a limp, in marine full-dress uniform, which  had lost its razor crease about thirty minutes after I began the  watch at the cemetery. 
   
   I stopped  in front of her, halfway up the walk.  She looked up at  me with an old woman's squint. 
   
   'Ma'am,may  I assist you in any way?'  
   
   She took  long enough to answer. 
   
   'Yes,  son.  Can you carry these flowers?  I seem to  be moving a tad slow these days.'  
   
   'My  pleasure, ma'am.'  Well,  it wasn't too much of a lie. 
   
   She  looked again.  'Marine,  where were you stationed?'  
   
   '  Vietnam,  ma'am.  Ground-pounder. '69 to '71.'  
   
   She  looked at me closer.  'Wounded  in action, I see.  Well done, Marine.  I'll be  as quick as I can.'  
   
   I lied a  little bigger:  'No  hurry, ma'am.'  
   
   She  smiled and winked at me.  'Son,  I'm 85-years-old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let's  get this done.  Might be the last time I can do  this.  My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I've a few  Marines I'd like to see one more time.'  
   
   'Yes, ma  'am.  At your service.'  
   
   She  headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone.  She  picked one of the flowers out of my arm and laid it on top of the  stone.  She murmured something I couldn't quite make  out. The name on the marble was Donald  S. Davidson, USMC: France 1918.  
   
   She  turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section,  stopping at one stone.  I saw a tear slowly tracking its  way down her cheek.  She put a bunch on a stone; the  name was Stephen  X.Davidson, USMC, 1943.  
   
   She went  up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone,  Stanley  J. Wieserman, USMC, 1944.  
   
   She  paused for a second.  'Two  more, son, and we'll be done'  
   
   I almost  didn't say anything, but, 'Yes,  ma'am.  Take your time.'  
   
   She  looked confused. 'Where's  the Vietnam section, son?  I seem to have lost my  way.'  
   
   I pointed  with my chin.  'That  way, ma'am.'  
   
   'Oh!' she  chuckled quietly.  'Son, me  and old age ain't too friendly.'   
   
   She  headed down the walk I'd pointed at.  She stopped at a  couple of stones before she found the ones she  wanted.  She placed a bunch on Larry  Wieserman, USMC, 1968, and the  last on Darrel  Wieserman, USMC, 1970.  She  stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out.  
   
   'OK,  son, I'm finished.  Get me back to my car and you can go  home.'  
   
   Yes,  ma'am.  If I may ask, were those your  kinfolk?'   
   
   She  paused. 'Yes,  Donald  Davidson was my  father, Stephen was my  uncle, Stanley was my  husband, Larry and  Darrel were  our sons.  All killed in action, all  marines.'  
   
   She  stopped.  Whether she had finished, or couldn't finish,  I don't know.  She made her way to her car, slowly and  painfully.
   I waited  for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it  over to Kevin, waiting by the car.  
   'Get to  the 'Out' gate quick.  I have something I've got to  do.'  
   
   Kevin  started to say something, but saw the look I gave  him.  He broke the rules to get us there down the  service road.  We beat her.  She hadn't made it  around the rotunda yet.  
   
   'Kevin,  stand at attention next to the gatepost.  Follow my  lead.'  I  humped it across the drive to the other post.  
   
   When the  Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short  straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's  voice:  'TehenHut!  Present  Haaaarms!'  
   
   I have to  hand it to Kevin; he never blinked an eye--full dress attention  and a salute that would make his DI proud.
She drove through  that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send-off she  deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing  duty, honor and sacrifice. 
   
   I am not  sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that  Cadillac.  
   
   Instead  of 'The  End,' just  think of 'Taps.'  
   
   As a  final thought on my part, let me share a favorite prayer:  'Lord,  keep our servicemen and women safe, whether they serve at home or  overseas.  Hold them in your loving hands and protect  them as they protect us.'  
   
   Let's all  keep those currently serving and those who have gone before in our  thoughts. They are the reason for the many freedoms we enjoy.  
   
   'In God We Trust.'