The sun is blazing a slow, painful trail across a cloudless sky. The air is muggy. Weary hands wipe beads of sweat off weary faces; weary legs keep plodding forward, hoping for a few steps in the shade. People hurry up a path, following signs for an unknown fighter's final resting place. They rush to honor the memory of this one fallen soldier, and through him, all fallen soldiers. In their haste, they rush by the rows and rows of gravestones on each side of the path, intent only on reaching the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

The heat is palpable, a shroud wrapping around tee-shirts and shorts streaked with perspiration. A soldier in full military dress guards the front of the tomb. As the crowd gathers, another uniformed guard approaches. Children squint in the silent sunlight. The heavy stillness is punctuated by the clicking of black patent leather heels against cement as a third soldier calls out commands. The ceremony ends; the new guard patrols; the children tug at their parents' arms and plead to return to the air-conditioned comfort of hotel rooms.

Another diversion grabs the children's attention: two new soldiers appear. The current guard disappears into a small booth. With exaggerated formality, one of the two new arrivals gently lifts the wreath which had adorned the Tomb and carries it around to the back. Although his movements are precise, a few scattered petals remain atop the monument to anonymous bravery. The soldier finally directs his attention to the crowd, explaining that a junior high school class wishes to place a new wreath on the tomb. The second soldier, who is holding a bugle, has done nothing thus far. A third soldier escorts a boy and a girl carrying a brightly colored wreath of flowers down a flight of steps to the tomb itself. The nervous-looking pair relinquish the wreath to one of the soldiers; he places it with care upon the tomb. The students stand straight and tall, unblinking even in the fierce sunlight.

The soldier who had first explained the proceedings informs the crowd that all should be standing at attention. The second soldier lifts the bugle to his lips and begins to play "Taps." The sun turns the shiny brass into bright gold. The notes are clear and piercing in the stillness; each note hangs suspended for a moment in the summer heat. A few people brush tears from their eyes. The bugle stops, the two students are escorted back up the stairs, the crowd resumes "at ease" positions, and children again tug at parents' hands. The spell is broken. One of the loose petals from the original wreath drifts slowly through the air and disappears from view, lost among the rows and rows of gravestones surrounding the unknown soldier's tomb.