In July of 2008, as the historic presidential election was hitting fever pitch, I traveled to Washington DC to visit my son, who was there as a summer intern with the Democratic National Committee. On the Fourth, before heading to the Mall for the spectacular nighttime fireworks display, we crossed the Potomac River into Virginia to spend the afternoon at Arlington National Cemetery. It was the first visit for both of us, and we stopped at the Visitor Center near the entrance to get a map and information on where a family member was buried.

We began our tour by following the crowds flocking to John F. Kennedy’s grave. Then, amidst a smaller group of fellow tourists, we headed up the hill to Arlington House, the beautiful residence with a sweeping panorama of the city that Robert E. Lee abandoned on the eve of the Civil War, never to return to again.

From there, we were on our own. We stopped in the rose garden outside Arlington House to map out the way to our relative’s grave. The path that on paper looked to be the shortest route immediately plunged steeply downhill. Given the amount of terrain we had to cover, it didn’t take long to realize we would be better off conserving our energy and keeping to the heights toward the back of the cemetery. So, we retraced our steps and headed out another way.

No-one was up there save for a few birds hopping from grave stone to grave stone. The road led through an old burial ground from the Civil War. Row after row of plain marble tablets read “Unknown U.S. Soldier.” Interspersed here and there were tablets with different carvings, an unfamiliar insignia of a cross within a circle over the words “Unknown Confederate Soldier.” They seemed almost to have been buried where their bodies were found. These long dead men, who had fought on opposite sides of a great conflict, lay side by side in eternal rest. Each had a life story, and loved ones who most likely never learned what happened to them.

Sean’s and my customary running banter about politics, culture, and everything else under the sun had grown silent, and I stepped onto the grass with my camera.

“The picture is a poem,” I told him.

In taking the following photograph, I was so intent on the visual balance between the Union and Confederate gravestones that I failed to notice the one at the back of the lineup. It wasn’t until I reached home and saw a print that it caught my eye, and then it leaped out at me. It reads, simply, “Unknown.”