The healing wall
My father would hold my hand ever so tightly
Whether it was to keep me from straying
Or for his own feeling of support,
As strong as it was, it would occasionally shake.
It was always these days once a year
That i saw my fathers hidden grief
Scarred upon his worn face, his sad eyes
His scarred arm seemed more vibrant than usual.
This place was always a mystery to me
He would never fully explain things
I'd ask him "What are all these names?"
and he'd quietly and painfully respond with
"They're my boys, America's boys".
What could a 6 year old boy get from that?
I was too clueless to know that they were more
More than just names chiseled into granite,
That faces, voices, lives, memories came with them.
We would stop at specific spots,
My father had memorized all his boys locations
A name here, there, at the top, bottom, middle
All seemed to run together as one collective mass.
He saw them though, every single one of them
He'd take his time, running his hand over the engravings
His eyes would close tight, a mute moment of pain
You could see he wanted to scream, to cry out, to buckle.
But after the last name was re-read and touched,
He'd take three steps back, snap to attention,
And salute as best as his war ravaged right arm would let him
He'd wince with pain everytime, but he'd maintain his posture.
As we'd leave and pass the statues of the servicemen,
He'd always stop and say "We did it, we're home, you're home".
Then he'd take me out to ice cream to wash away the survivors guilt
I would ask him why he would go to such a place if it hurt him so badly.
"Because, it's a healing place, a healing wall."
22 years later, i now go to this wall alone
I remembered all the names and locations of his boys
I touch the names, speak gently to them, and take rubbings
I tell them he's with them now, and that they did your job well.
It is a healing wall for me too, a place to connect
To understand, to appreciate, to remember, never forget
Whether it was to keep me from straying
Or for his own feeling of support,
As strong as it was, it would occasionally shake.
It was always these days once a year
That i saw my fathers hidden grief
Scarred upon his worn face, his sad eyes
His scarred arm seemed more vibrant than usual.
This place was always a mystery to me
He would never fully explain things
I'd ask him "What are all these names?"
and he'd quietly and painfully respond with
"They're my boys, America's boys".
What could a 6 year old boy get from that?
I was too clueless to know that they were more
More than just names chiseled into granite,
That faces, voices, lives, memories came with them.
We would stop at specific spots,
My father had memorized all his boys locations
A name here, there, at the top, bottom, middle
All seemed to run together as one collective mass.
He saw them though, every single one of them
He'd take his time, running his hand over the engravings
His eyes would close tight, a mute moment of pain
You could see he wanted to scream, to cry out, to buckle.
But after the last name was re-read and touched,
He'd take three steps back, snap to attention,
And salute as best as his war ravaged right arm would let him
He'd wince with pain everytime, but he'd maintain his posture.
As we'd leave and pass the statues of the servicemen,
He'd always stop and say "We did it, we're home, you're home".
Then he'd take me out to ice cream to wash away the survivors guilt
I would ask him why he would go to such a place if it hurt him so badly.
"Because, it's a healing place, a healing wall."
22 years later, i now go to this wall alone
I remembered all the names and locations of his boys
I touch the names, speak gently to them, and take rubbings
I tell them he's with them now, and that they did your job well.
It is a healing wall for me too, a place to connect
To understand, to appreciate, to remember, never forget