The Wall

I stare absently at the trees, buildings, and people blurred into a childish painting by the speed of the car. Street vendors, tourists, and homeless all merge into an image that is unmistakably The City. I rarely come here anymore. I can't risk it; DC has too many inherent dangers. But today, I need to come; I need to remember.

The car starts and stops with the movement of the traffic seemingly of its own volition as I drift through the dim corners of the past and I see him, black and white from the photo that sat atop my bedside table while I grew up. I never knew him, not really. He's just a face, a name, and a story my mother told me. I lost the picture a long time ago, the only proof I had of his existence, and I let it go. Today is my day to remember.

I park blocks away, and slip out of the car. The heat drowns me in a stifling wave, but I walk towards the wall. I have to have a cover, even today. I'm just one of many photographers recording their impressions of the wall. My pack is swollen with cameras, film, and tracing paper. But I don't mind my character-of-the-day. For once I find it appropriate, because I need to record my memory.

I pull my camera out and begin snapping pictures. A man with his child. Another in an old, fraying army uniform, a pack of cigarettes shoved carelessly into a pocket. An old lady with a flag. All of them walking towards the wall.

I pass an iron statue of three men; maybe twenty years old, looking lost, alone, and overwhelmed. They carry machine guns through the rushes of some forgotten marsh. That statue hits me full force, and I stop walking. All of a sudden, I can't breathe. All of a sudden, I care. Before, it had been *my* story, but now, it belongs to other families, other lost lives. Time stops as I stare into the past, my breath a silent whispered prayer, my hands shaking. After a few minutes, I raise my camera and begin taking pictures of the lifeless statue that symbolizes so much life. Around me, some cry, and some, like me, can't even do that.

Now, its time. I walk towards the wall, which looks like a black river of tears stretching out forever.

I begin walking the length of the wall. With every step, I wince because more fall and die. I pass his name, but I'm not ready to face him yet. I swallow hard and walk on.

Once I reach the end of the wall, I look back on all I have walked, on all that have died. Then, and only then, do I see the people still alive, all in their own world of grief. I remembered the camera around my neck and the backpack slung over one shoulder. I noticed the sweat dribbling down my back and the heat clawing at me. I've trained myself not to notice, but today, I do. I don't know why.

Again I walk the length of the wall, this time taking pictures of people hunched over in pain. One woman clutches a baby's hand to a name and says 'Grandpa.' A father, now leaning heavily on a cane, weeps for his son. A man in an army uniform takes a rubbing of his friend's name onto a paper. Inadequate, but necessary. He whispers 'Thanks' as a tear dribbles down his cheek. An old lady sits in a wheel chair and stares through tear-filled eyes at her reflection or the past, I can't tell which. I pass his name a second time, but I can't even look at it yet. I walk on; I retreat.

I reach the end of the wall, back at my starting place. But this time, a flower rests at my feet. A woman stands a few feet away weeping into a yellowed photograph, which she kisses, puts beside the flower, and retreats into the crowd. Down the river of tears, other memories and mementos were strewn in the path of the names. I haven't brought anything to leave for him. He wouldn't be proud of me, his son who lives in shadows and haunts the night. Leaving something would acknowledge my presence here, and in a way, I don't want him to know.

But I need to remember. How do you say 'hello' to someone you've never met and 'goodbye' at the same time? I reach his name a third time, and I stop; the wall just reaches my waist. I need to make a rubbing. I kneel down beside the mirror of faceless names and shakily raise a slip of tracing paper to the surface. 'Vladimir Krycek.' His name is lost is a sea of all the others. "Hi, dad." I smile. "It's me, Alex." My charcoal makes coarse lines on the paper, and the name is hardly visible. A cloud of charcoal dust spins round me, sticking to the sweat on my face, arms, hands, and hair. People stop to take my picture, but for once I don't care, I'm too intent on his name.

I stumble to a bench under a tree, craving the shade that the wall doesn't provide. "Cold war immigrants." God, it had hurt even to say it, but I did because I had a mission and I needed the lie. In one sentence, I had disregarded everything that my father had died defending. I look down at the tracing paper clutched in my hand. His name is ghosty-gray lost in the black of the charcoal. "I'm sorry dad. I'm sorry I never came here before. I'm sorry you died. I'm sorry I never knew you. I'm sorry for what I've become. I'm sorry. Maybe.maybe if you were there, I would have turned out differently." The edges of the paper ripple with the breeze. I'll never get an answer. I'll never hear him say he loves me, never feel him hug me. Never hear him say he's proud of me. And why should he be? I'm a soldier for an unknown war with no battlefield. He was a soldier who fought proudly and willingly for his country in a time when so many others wouldn't.

Beside me stands a pedestal with a phonebook inside it, but there is no phone. I realize that it is, instead, a list of all those on the wall and where to find their name. A whole volume of dead men and women! All of a sudden, I feel sick. I flip through the book, looking for names, towns, and dates I know. Some people I recognize, but so many others are unknown that I grow overwhelmed and sit down again. So many people's lives were fucked up by the war. How many more out there are just like me? Fatherless and without a real identity. Too many.

I pass his name one more time, and I stop. Slowly, I reach for my own blurred and darkened image reflected in the wall. "I love you dad."

As I leave, I pass a man sitting on a bench wearing forgotten, fraying army fatigues. He's so quiet I almost can't hear him.

"Pray for the people still lost in the jungles of Vietnam."

I can't tell if he is talking about himself or his comrades on the wall, but I nod at him and say "Amen." Maybe I'm still lost there, too.