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The crowd was a big one for the long-struggling burial grounds, adjacent to one another and separated by only a battered cyclone fence from the neighboring Oak Hill Cemetery, the premier final address for Washington’s largely white elite.

I have personally seen phone-impaired people fall into the fountain at the United States Courthouse; stand, oblivious, in a malfunctioning elevator; walk into a cyclone fence; not to mention the many who just walk out into the street into oncoming traffic without looking up from their devices.

In the only photograph I had of her, a snapshot, she squinted blurrily at the camera, one hand on the Cyclone fence and the other on my father’s new riding lawn mower.

Then I would walk like a zombie to the parking lot and drive to the baseball field, where I wouldn’t even get out of the car, just sit with my hands on the steering wheel and stare at the Cyclone fence and the yellowed winter grass until the sun went down and it was too dark for me to see.

They were housed in a barracks-style camp, enclosed by a cyclone fence with a guard at the gate.