As soon as he told us to pick up our things and follow him, I knew where he was taking us. We walked across campus, a silent procession with backpacks, at least half of a mile. Through streets, parking lots, buildings. And then there was nothing. A silent park surrounded by humanity-the sounds of horns, clashes, crashes-yet here, silent in its sacredness. As we entered the stone gate, he simply told us to "read the plaque". We crept forth, knowing before we were told that this place was sadness. Hundreds of unmarked graves, right beneath our very feet. Hundreds of men that never made it home, that died in Oxford, Mississippi and did not die a "good death"; a death surrounded by loved ones, with a confidence of one's future in heaven. They were rough, raw passings, without the dignity of markers or sisters dropping tears onto the fresh soil.

We were noiseless. Settling onto the stone wall that surrounds the plot, we listened to him explain about the numbers of the dead. Not historical numbers, not the estimates listed only for fact and memorization. He gave us the same numbers, with different perspective-the idea that war is hell, the fleeting question of wondering what could ever be so important that we would shed human blood. I stretched my hand over the rust carpet of pine needles, woven into one another dusting the cemetery. It was cold outside, and I'm sure that none of us could forget that there were bones beneath our feet.