The Silence that Whistles Through the Tombstones

As a great capital evolved, its once-grand graveyard fell by the wayside. Now one Washingtonian finds peace in the District’s forgotten but still-grand Congressional Cemetery.

Photos by Eric Kruszewski

It is March, but the sun is slung low and the light filters down sheer and bleached by winter. As I reach the gates of Congressional Cemetery, the wind rises off the Anacostia River. It whistles through the tombstones, leafless oaks and drooping willows. Hyacinth, determined sprigs of royal purple, press out of the frosty earth along the path. Spring feels distant yet.

I walk down the cemetery’s central boulevard, Congress Street, past a line of stone memorials with pyramid caps that look like squat obelisks, toward a chapel with barred windows shaped like coffins. From the street I could hear the plaintive tones of a bagpipe. I quickly discover their origins. A man in a Scottish kilt parades down the stone path, playing and breathing heavily. Two others flank him: an older gentleman in a gray blazer with a red bucket hat pulled down low over his forehead. To his left is a woman of similar age sporting a dark coat and darker sunglasses.

I worry I am a voyeur at …