Squinting, I see a block's worth of motorcyclists driving slowly toward me. At first, they're a welcome distraction. It's a long stoplight.

Each headlight is lit, though in this kind of midday glare, I can barely tell. They shine anyway. When the bikers reach me, passing just on the other side of the dying grass median, I see that each man — and they are all men — displays a "Patriot Guard" sign on his windshield. Then comes a silver hearse, sparkling as though someone had embedded glitter or bits of broken glass in the metal. Looking beyond them, I see a long row of cars trailing, each with fluorescent orange FUNERAL stickers placed against the glass.

It's mid-afternoon and I am red, damp from running on the treadmill. My body still sweats, working to cool, but the cracked window allows the cold air to flood in and then out. It helps.

The green left-turn arrow appears, but I keep my foot on the brake, shift into Park. In my rear-view mirror, I read the Semper Fi license plates and bumper stickers and I realize that they are likely on their way to Arlington National Cemetery, just a few miles down the road. Traffic from an intersection ahead of them, behind me, causes the procession to slow until each car passes mine at walking speed, timidly, and I see the faces, the white hats, the gold buttons of the passengers

Marine buttons are surprisingly delicate. I once missed the homily at a wedding service, examining the intricacy of the eagles and the anchors embedded in gold, somehow sewn on tight enough to hold in the post-service weight of the man I was dating. He hadn't worn his uniform since I'd known him, since he'd been released a few weeks before all of this mess had begun, in August of 2001, and it showed. After the ceremony, I remember lying, warm in my bed while I listened to confessions of his time at the base in Phuket. Buying drinks for young girls in cheap shiny dresses. The damp heat. The aggressive bar owners. There were holes, he said, cut into the plaster beneath the bar. You could shimmy up, set down American dollars, and put yourself through. There was someone on the other side. He hadn't done it, but lots of guys had. His voice cracked and I thanked God my room was dark enough that I could take his doughy, sweating hand in mine without my face giving me away. Making it clear I'd rather not know. I would remember this story years later when I read, randomly, that Semper fidelis is the motto of his family name too. I was relieved, then, that it hadn't become my last name. Semper fi. Always faithful.

More cars slowly pass. A dark-haired woman alone in a red SUV inches along, crying while she looks straight ahead, hands on the wheel. I see an older couple, then a young couple. Two men. Two young girls. A cab with three old ladies, thin white hair curled to respectful perfection.

As the procession passes slowly through the intersection, a green Honda pulls out of a mall garage on my right. It pauses long enough to take in the scene and then continues, moving into the road, despite the cars, the stickers and headlights. Despite the grief. I look at the middle-aged man in the driver's seat. Stop, I say out loud. It's a funeral. Stop.

He starts and jerks to a halt, hesitates again mid-turn, then tries, signal blinking, to force his way into the line of cars. I surprise myself with a hoarse yell, arms thrown toward my windshield, flat palms facing him. Stop. Suddenly I am crying, hands limp now, one on the wheel, one on my forehead, trying to shield my face in the afternoon sun.

Jessica McCaughey studies and teaches writing at George Mason University, just outside of Washington, DC. She's also a freelance writer and editor whose current obsessions include Thai drunken noodles, Civil War reenactors, and the new, lovely yellow paint on her living room walls.