He had grown up in Prince George's County, embodying a far more lighthearted and generous spirit than the photograph suggests, living for 21 years, two months.
At the time of his death in a roadside bomb explosion in Tikrit on March 13, 2004, Ford was counted among 584 U.S. service members killed in Iraq. More than a thousand Americans have followed him since to Arlington and other resting places, trailing honor guards and buglers, ceremonial gunshots, flags folded into tidy triangles.
The grave lay in full sunshine early yesterday afternoon as five members of Ford's family in two cars turned left from Eisenhower Drive onto York Drive, pulling to the curb by a field where the march of white marble stones has, for the time being, ceased. In this section, open grass still stretches a few acres to the east.
Yesterday marked the first Memorial Day at Arlington for Jason's father, Joseph C. Ford.
"It was just too fresh on the first Memorial Day," he said. "It was just too soon."
A Marine Corps veteran of the Vietnam War and retired Washington police officer, Joseph Ford has since March 2004 tested his own limits of the bearable. He has not pursued the details of how his youngest child died, nor did he wish to see the remains when they were returned from overseas.
"I'm in denial, I'm not ready to release him," said Joseph Ford, who lives in the Prince George's community of Temple Hills. "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. ... I want to keep the thoughts of him walking upright and everything."
Standing about 6 feet tall and slender, Jason Ford made a fine figure in uniform. He seemed to take to the soldier's role with ease, even if his decision to join the Army in 2002 caught some family members by surprise.
He had talked about a career in computer repair, which he learned at the Woodland Job Corps Center in Laurel, where he also completed work for his high school diploma late in 2001. He had played drums and keyboards and for a while attended the Duke Ellington School for the Arts in Washington. A gentle soul by all accounts, this son and grandson of war veterans did not seem to be called to arms.
"I can't see him doing what he did," his older brother, Thomas Harley, a Prince George's County police officer, said in a telephone interview. "Put an M-16 in his hands and tell him bear down on his sights? No, it wasn't him. It hurts me just to think about it."
An Air Force veteran who did tours on security details since Sept. 11, 2001, in Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan, Harley recalled talking with his kid brother alone in the kitchen of their sister's townhouse in Bowie soon after Jason Ford announced his decision in 2002.
"I said, 'Tell me you didn't go into the Army,'" Harley recalled. "'Tell me you didn't go into the infantry.'"
Indeed, Jason Ford had chosen both of these options. He went off to basic training at Fort Benning, Ga., then to the U.S. Army 1st Battalion, 18th Infantry Regiment, based in Schweinfurt, Germany.
"My main concern was that he have a vision of where he wanted to go," said Joseph Ford. "Whatever was positive, I was for. I did not have an agenda for him."
Rachel Hodges of Largo had not seen Jason Ford since their paths crossed at William Wirt Middle School in Riverdale. Then she heard the news in March 2004 that he had been killed. She instantly remembered his sense of humor, his generosity and one particular DKNY T-shirt he wore.
She liked the T-shirt, but was never so bold as to ask for it. On her birthday he gave it to her, although it was, by her account in an e-mail, "10 sizes too big. ... In middle school people didn't just do stuff like that, and that's when I knew Jason was different from any other person I would ever know."